


Made to be Broken

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Romance, Story with Multiple Endings, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Who/The Thick of It Crossover and Alternate Universe. </p><p>Fresh out of graduate school, Clara Oswald has been hired as a professor at Coals Hill University. The University, her colleagues, and the profession are everything she expected them to be...with the exception of one individual. When she learns that the fallen Director of Communications, Malcolm Tucker, is a fellow professor in the English Department, her curiosity for the cold and calculating man sees her down a path of discovery that she only ever dreamed of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 15th 2014

**Author's Note:**

> The following characters are not mine, but are rather the property of genius writers: Clara Oswald, Danny Pink, and Malcolm Tucker.  
> I do not own Doctor Who, nor The Thick of It, therefore any references to events that occur in either canon are not of my invention.  
> Please do not sue me. 
> 
> I have been notified that my story has been published on ebooks-tree.com without my permission. While I assume there is nothing I can do about that, it bothers me that it is there. Please read and review the story here!

Clara Oswald looked long and hard at her reflection. She was done up well in her makeup, the shading around her eyes subtle, yet complimentary to their shape, her lips slightly shiny with the colored gloss she traced over them. Her hair was straightened and tame, the sweeping bangs she grew to love brushed to the side as her locks dusted over her shoulders.

Today was the first day that she would make an appearance before the entirety of her new department. She was the newest staff member in the English Department at Coals Hill University, and there was nothing that could stifle the pride she felt at her new position. After many years of undergrad and graduate coursework, she was finally where she longed to be.

“Hello, I’m Clara Oswald. Yes, hello, I’m Clara Oswald. Pleased to meet you!” She smiled at herself before shaking her head, sighing at the stupidity of her nerves. “I’m Professor Oswald, but you can call me Clara.”  

Donning a flattering purple pant suit, white button up, and thin black scarf, she left her mirrors and made her way to the University, the fall air already crisp in her lungs. August was, surprisingly, one of the few months that Clara always looked forward to. It was the start of another year of academia, and another adventure in the literary worlds of her most beloved writers.

The University was a stunning place, with brick buildings supported by white columns, incredible libraries and theaters, and lush, green grass accented by the trees which littered the grounds with leaves in the fall and pollen in the spring. This time of year, during the quiet hours when only professors and lingering summer term students were on campus, it was perfect for afternoons spent on The Lawn, which was arguably the focal point of the University. There was a building on the far end of it that Clara was headed to, her thoughts occupied with the coming meeting and her hands full with her laptop bag and coffee.   

With ease she strode down the long corridors of the designated meeting place, which was boringly named New Cabell Hall. As she entered the west stairwell she was greeted with the echoes of conversation and the general bustle of staff as they were herded towards the elected conference room. Each step in her ascent felt heavier than the last, and it dawned on her for the second time that morning that she was invariably anxious.

“Right, do you need someone to carry you, or can you manage on your own?”

Clara hadn’t realized she stopped moving until the impatient Scot questioned her, his eyebrows raised expressively as he took her in. There was something oddly familiar about his face, but she couldn’t quite place why. He stood over her despite being two stairs below, and the jean trouser and black sweater combination he wore gave no doubt as to how lean he was.   

“No, sorry,” she replied with an empty laugh, stepping closer to the rail so as to let him pass. As he crossed she could see him watching her in his peripherals, his eyes blue and hard, pinning her in place and keeping her silent. She wondered what the hell happened to have earned his scorn at eight in the morning, but she would come to learn that such behavior was merely muscle memory.    

“Clara!” she turned quickly, preferring the light, friendly tone to the sarcasm she just heard.

“Professor Pink!” Clara greeted him with a smile, switching her coffee to her left hand so she could offer him her right. He took the stairs two at a time, the muscles of his legs evident in the outline of his tan trousers, his grip firm around hers.

“Just Danny,” he returned, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “we’re colleagues, there’s no need for the formalities.”

Danny introduced himself to her the previous week after finding her roaming the halls of the maths department. Both he and Clara were new members of the Coals Hill staff, and they found comfort in each other’s presence. They grabbed coffee after their respective department meetings, and the conversation was light and flowing. While he was not in the English Department, he mentioned that he would also be on campus this morning, as all departments held conferences on the same day.    

“Glad to see you’ve made it, Danny,” she teased, recalling his possible schedule conflict. “How was your hike?”

“Fantastic, thank you for asking,” he grinned, and it was welcoming. He gestured forward and they walked to the third floor together, making their way through the thickening groups of professors and department heads who gathered for pleasantries in the halls. When Clara came upon the room for the English Department, she extended her hand once more to Danny.

“Thank you for being a familiar face this morning,” she said after exhaling shakily, her brows raised in an expression of ‘time-to-see-what-the-day-has-in-store.’

“You’re welcome,” he returned with a knowing nod, half turning to find his room before adding, “and don’t be a stranger. Us Maths and English types ought to stick together.”

She pursed her lips in amusement and watched him walk away, pleased to have made a friend well before she believed she would. With a final, deep inhale she entered the class, browsing the faces within to see if anyone else she recognized was there. There were a few individuals in close, loud conversation, their attire similar despite their varying sexes, and she wondered if she was doomed to fall into their style. She noticed almost immediately that she was the only person wearing anything other than black, gray, and browns, but she did not mind the added attention of her purple color splash. If she was the only new face among the crowd, there was little she could do to avoid the spotlight.    

It was then, during her sweeping of the room, that she noticed the man from the stairwell; a fierce scowl was on his face as he silently observed his surroundings. Clara considered him with curiosity, her head tilting to the side as she thought long and hard on why he was _so_ familiar. The deep lines, blue eyes, stark gray and white hair all seemed to connect to a name, but she was struggling to recall it. She didn’t realize how direct her staring was until she found him staring back, a brow raised in questioning. It was then that it dawned on her...

“Malcolm!” A voice behind her greeted him, and the woman was received with a less than subtle rolling of the eyes and incredibly false grin. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning, you’re usually missing in action for these sort of festivities.”

Malcolm Tucker, the fallen Director of Communications. It was years since his name grabbed the headlines of newspapers and news channels, his very public plummet from power a hot topic during her time in university. That was seven years ago. Though he was eventually found innocent of his charges after many appeals, the repercussions were so great that he was practically exiled from politics. Clara was internally horrified to learn that he moved on to higher education.

“I heard there were strippers,” he deadpanned, crossing his arms defensively as the woman bouncily approached him, “but if you’re the entertainment I think I’ll hold on to my wallet.”

Clara frowned as she dropped into the closest seat to her, but not before catching his eye once more. The rest of their conversation fell into the murmurs of the rest of the room, and she kept herself to herself as the remainder of the department filed in. _Fresh meat_ , she thought, hazily remembering the horror stories that came out of his public shaming. _Wonder how many poor students and professors fell under one of his infamous bollockings. Better yet, how the hell did he get hired here?_

“Alright everyone, time to get into order,” the English Department Head, Matthew Greason, called them to attention, his casual attire a massive difference to the professional garb he donned during her interviews. He was balding and round, with a misshapen mustache and white hair, but he had a sweet smile and a profound knowledge of literature.

The room was full, roughly twenty professors cluttered in with one another as they received their briefings for the coming semester. After the regular business, Dean Greason introduced Clara to her colleagues, and they all welcomed her with handshakes and words of advice.

“Welcome to the Department,” Malcolm greeted, offering her his hand. “Malcolm Tucker.”  

“Thank you,” Clara replied politely, slightly avoiding direct eye contact as she took his hand. “Clara Oswald.”

He nodded in acknowledgement before moving on, and she wondered if he remembered their encounter that morning. Then she looked at her hand, realizing how cold to the touch he felt. _No soul_ , she thought with a private smile, which unfortunately caught the attention of the woman who greeted him earlier.

“Miss Oswald, such a pleasure to have a fresh, young face in the English Department,” she cooed as she brought Clara in for a one-sided and fairly uncomfortable hug. “There is a certain monotony to University life as a staffer when everyone already knows one another. I’m Nicola James.”

“Nice to meet you, Nicola.”

“There are some very interesting individuals here, though. You can’t even fathom how fascinating a lecture with Dean Greason actually is, he has this fantastic way of...” Clara couldn’t help the fact that she stopped listening. Nicola’s voice was rather high pitched and drawn out, each syllable being paid special attention as they bounced off of her tongue. There was something cringe worthy in the way that she presented herself. Clara began to understand why Tucker wouldn’t bother hiding any contempt he held for her. “...rough around the edges, but Malcolm offers a truly remarkable course on the literature of theatre.”  

“I’m sorry?”   

“Malcolm. He teaches a course on contemporary drama.”

“Does anyone else find that odd, or is it just me?” Clara questioned honestly, everything she knew about him at odds with this new information.

“He’s calmed down a bit since then,” Nicola spoke quietly, as if afraid to divulge such news. Clara was thankful she didn’t have to explain the thinking behind her question, but she leaned in with the decrease in volume of their conversation. “I think it’s his health that keeps him careful, but fifty-six isn’t exactly an age for outbursts and high levels of stress. Besides, academia suits him.”

“That’s something I wouldn’t mind witnessing.”

“That’s a possibility, you know. His course is always relatively large; he sparks some interest amongst the students. There is no harm in sitting in a few classes if you have the time in your schedule. Heaven knows I do it across departments.”

Clara considered this for a moment before nodding in contemplation, not letting on to how much she would like to look into the opportunity. It seemed like a paradox, Malcolm Tucker and theatre. Besides, she had a close friend who majored in political science at university; she would find it fascinating to hear what has become of the spitfire Scotsman.  

“Thank you, Nicola,” Clara smiled genuinely, the woman growing on her despite the brevity of their conversation. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”

“Likewise, Clara. Do enjoy the rest of your day!”

She tried to, but the rest of her day consisted of meetings, meetings, and a few more meetings. She was swept through the English Department with a gusto that would send anyone to bed early, but there was much to do and little time to do it before the beginning of the semester. What she wanted to tackle first was the issue of her new office. The walls were barren, the desk empty of personal touch, the shelves ghostly without books to grace them. She had boxes of items that she wished to organize in the small space, which she would take time to unpack in the morning.

For now, she was focused on the paperwork that she had to work through, each line of writing more confusing than the last. Curriculum guidelines. Student relations and regulations. Health concerns. Necessary actions for emergencies. Course material requirements and text information. When she was a quarter through the documents she resigned herself to bed, the early morning and excruciatingly boring pace of her afternoon leaving her more than knackered. Before sleep overtook her she thought of three positives of the day, or things that made her smile, which was a habit she picked up upon the suggestion of a close friend.

 _One_. _Danny Pink and I had a wonderful conversation this morning._

_Two. The English Department was very receptive and welcoming._

_Three. I learned that Malcolm Tucker teaches Contemporary Drama._


	2. August 16th 2014

“You sure you don’t need any help with your decorating?” Danny asked between sips of his coffee, his other hand on the steering wheel of his Fusion.

“No, no thank you,” Clara replied, blowing on her beverage, “I am a bit particular about where my things belong.”

“All about the control,” he jested.

Clara shrugged in response. She knew he was joking from the light hearted tone and smile he flashed, but she wasn’t particularly fond of the subject. She was always grasping for control, even in the smallest areas of life, and her friends were quick to remind her of the habit at every chance they got. She didn’t need it from Danny as well.

“Thank you again, for the ride,” she deflected.

“Anytime,” he accepted the change.

When he pulled in to the rear staircase of Bryan Hall, he was out of the car faster than Clara could tell him not to trouble himself. She had quite a few boxes in his trunk, and he made sure to carry those containing the most books. He was a gentleman, after all, and had no issue in reinforcing the image time and time again. After every box was sitting in her third floor office, Clara mock saluted the rather breathless Danny, who shook his head.

“I’m not an officer, you don’t have to salute me,” he laughed, perhaps a little too forcefully.

“In that case, you’re dismissed Mr. Pink,” she enjoyed pushing his buttons. It _was_ a control thing. “Thank you again, Danny.”

“You’re welcome, Clara.”

She listened as his footfalls echoed through the halls, until they dissipated and the only sound left was that of her pulse in her ears. Quiet. Peaceful. She looked around at the taped up and labeled boxes and the emptiness of her office, and she set to work.

Halfway through the second box titled “Desk,” Clara paused, the heavy door of the stairwell slamming as the echoes of a murmuring voice preceded the source. She was certain she would be alone in Bryan today, Saturday being the customary day that everyone avoided the workplace. That was the reason she chose today. She wanted to do what she needed to without interruption.  _Typical_.

“Ollie, if I wanted to continue mopping up the fucking mess of shit that comes out of your mouth,  _I_  would have fucking married you, yeah? Bad enough I have to deal with cunt faced politics professors who try and get a word in with me.”

Clara remained as still as humanly possible as the footfalls drew closer, the harsh words and exasperated tone belonging to none other than Malcolm Tucker. She wondered why she mentally referred to him by his full name, but only briefly, as the footsteps stopped directly outside of her partially open door. She could hear him with perfect clarity. For a moment, she wondered if she should alert him to her presence.

“Right, well anyway, congratulations on the engagement,” she heard him say, and he was genuine when he said it. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get sentimental on me Ollie, I haven’t thrown up in ages and I’d like to fucking keep it that way.”

There was a knock on her door, but Clara stayed silent. She had no reason to avoid him, not as of yet, but she didn’t want the attention. In their combined silence he seemed satisfied that no one was in the office, so Malcolm pulled her door closed. All of the doors were closed when no one was in. Clara sighed quietly and waited until his voice was muffled behind the apparent closing of his own office door to resume her unpacking and sorting.

She completed sifting through the second box when David Bowie began serenading her through the walls. She hadn't listened to Bowie recently, but there was no denying that it was his unique sound that filled the empty hall. Not entirely empty, as she was certain Malcolm had thought. Clara paid no mind to the music as she began placing books on shelves. She even found herself nodding to the beat on a few occasions. In fact, she was quite at ease with the sound until another voice joined in with the English legend. Malcolm must have left his office and was passing by, as he was not belting for all to hear, but his gruff voice was unmistakably singing along to  _Scary Monsters_. With interest, Clara rushed to the door, pressing herself against it in earnest to hear him better. She did not realize that her sudden movement brushed along the box of books she was working through until it was too late. With a very audible thud the box and books hit the floor, and the singing ceased. She mumbled curses and went to their rescue. 

"Hello?" Malcolm knocked twice before entering, his slender fingers appearing around the edge of the door before he did.

Clara was on her hands and knees, lifting books from the floor and piling them onto her desk. When he cleared his throat loudly she looked up, and he was leaning upon the door frame, his arms crossed and brows raised. She gawked before pulling herself together.

"Yes, hello Mr. Tucker," she heard herself saying, and mentally pummeled the stupid out of her tone.

"Malcolm," he corrected. "I knocked earlier."

It wasn't a question, but an accusation.

"Did you?"  _Fake it until you make it, Clara_. "I must have stepped out."

His eyes narrowed. She swallowed, and wondered if this was how prey felt when stared down by the lone wolf.

"Need a hand with that?" He gestured to the fallen and newly forgotten novels.

"I think I can manage," she replied too quickly. 

Malcolm nodded slowly, unfolding his arms and fully stepping into the office. Even crouched down he was taller than her, and she couldn't help watching his hands as he sorted through her novels with looks of reproach or approval. She suddenly felt inadequate in her taste of literature. When he lifted her new copy of _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf_ from the floor, he paused. His eyes then found _Waiting for Godot_ , and _Long Day’s Journey into Night_. Clara’s eyes widened in response.

“I don’t suppose I’ll find _Streetcar Named Desire_ ,” Malcolm began, not looking at her, “and _Death of a Salesman_?”

Clara shrugged slowly, as if to buy time for a better answer.

“Have you all of the texts on my syllabus?”

“I’m still browsing for a copy of _Six Degrees of Separation_ ,” she answered truthfully, a slight blush dusting her cheeks.

Malcolm had nothing further to say on the matter. When the last of the books were off of the floor and stable on her desk, they both stood up. Clara barely reached his shoulders, but his posture was slightly bent forward, and she felt less inclined to step away.

“How are your preparations for next week coming along?” He asked, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Slowly,” she brushed the creases from her skirt. “The paperwork is a drag, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, they have to be able to cover their tracks if you turn out to be a cock up,” he didn’t smile in jest. “You should have seen the mountain of shit I had to tunnel through in order to be approved. I think I lost ten fucking years off my life just dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s.”

Clara laughed before thinking about whether he was joking or not, but he grinned at the light, jovial sound. _Good_ , he thought, _someone with a sense of humor._

“Don’t let me keep you from your moving in. I’m down the hall if you need me. Just knock,” he stepped towards the doorway, miming the action as if she had never seen it before, “because I answer to that, like most normal human beings.”

She barely had enough time to shake her head at the peculiar glint in his eyes before he was off to his own office. Bowie continued to sing and Clara continued to organize the novels on her shelf. Distractedly organize. She couldn’t help herself thinking about _him_. He was...different, than she thought he would be. But of course he was different. She just didn't expect him to be charming in an aggressive, alluring way. It was something in the way he carried himself, the way he looked at her.  

"Malcolm," Clara quietly voiced those two syllables, testing his name on her tongue. 

She didn't mind the way it felt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but the next is from our friendly neighbor Malcolm.


	3. Later, August 16th 2014

In his respective office, Malcolm dropped heavily into his rolling leather chair, his deft fingers already at work on the peels of his second tangerine of the morning. Soon to be his third, if he kept it up at the rate he was going. As old habits do indeed die hard, Malcolm often found himself alone in Bryan Hall, working tirelessly on things that did not need as much attention as he paid them.

“Clara Oswald,” he muttered, shaking his head as he pulled himself closer to his laptop.

His fingers ghosted over the keys before he curled them into his palms, pleasantly distracted. _The first time he saw her was Monday, when he had entered the west stairwell for their entirely pointless department meeting. He had never seen the young woman before, and he lingered on the bottom step in quiet observation. New, he had thought, when she came to a rest in the middle of the stairs, perhaps to collect herself. He waited, albeit impatiently, for her to resume her ascent, but she never did take the next step. Slowly he approached her, leaving two stairs between them in case he startled her when he spoke._

_She was apologetic, which he appreciated, but he couldn’t help the scowl after noting the way that she stared quizzically at him. He watched her watch him when he passed, and he was struck with the pleasant scent of lilacs and coffee, the youthful expanse of her brown eyes._

_Fuck off, Tucker, he had thought, walking faster._

Tangerine number three was lifted from the quickly depleting bowl of fruit on his desk, and he brushed the rinds of number two into the bin. He twisted the gold band on his left ring finger, reminding himself of the charge placed upon him years ago.

_And yet, when they were in the classroom waiting for the day to officially begin he had found her eyes on him once more, and curiosity welled inside of him. He held her gaze, and it felt like a challenge. When they shook hands he was taken by how small hers was, her skin soft under the subtle brush of his thumb..._

Malcolm cleared his throat, the sound hopefully inaudible over a particularly lengthy guitar solo. It was entirely plausible to be physically attracted to someone after a first encounter, otherwise people would not introduce themselves to one another in social contexts. Unprofessional, perhaps, but what is kept to oneself harms no one.

When he first applied for a professorial position at CHU, he was not convinced that they would take him seriously. Despite his long standing position in politics, he was not entirely consumed with his party during his young adult years. Having attended the Glasgow School of Art, he was well versed in the arts, and an interest in literature came along with it – something he decided to never let on. When the position opened, his sister phoned him and suggested a change in pace. His doctor recommended the same. Although he wasn’t exactly qualified for the position they awarded him, they allowed him to teach a small lecture during his first year to see whether he could excel at a set standard.

To the English Department’s unanimous surprise, the waitlist for his course was longer than most tenured professors. It was two years after his arrest, but how could the curiosity of college students keep them away from the fowl mouthed Scotsman? Malcolm knew how to control a room, and his reputation was quickly fortified by the praises of those he taught. Dean Greason took the time to attend Tucker’s course during the Spring Semester, and he too was pleased with the luck of taking a chance and hiring Malcolm.

In the past five years, few people interested him. Sure, there were a handful of colleagues that were decent enough company that he would accept invitations to bars, or small dinners. But in so few words and even less interactions, he found himself wondering for the first time in a while if there were any merits to pursuing –

“Ah, no,” Malcolm exhaled dazedly, brushing his hands over his face, then through his hair.  _Besides,_ he concluded internally, _she’s got the fellow who looks like he belongs in the kinesiology department._

Aggressively, he stuffed half of the tangerine in his mouth, fingers pounding out the revised class policy he meant to complete ten minutes ago.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be split between the same day - and then we will really have the ball rolling. Apologies for the length/pace of these first few chapters. More dialogue to come!


	4. August 26th, 2014

There was a buzz of excitement pervading the air when Clara took a seat in the back left corner of New Cabell 132, the class filling with well dressed students of varying ages and genders. There were two large chalkboards along the right side of the room, and an expanse of windows on the left revealing a pleasant view of the newly renovated garden area. The door to the room was by the back right corner, and most of the students swiveled in their seats every time it opened, eyes wide in anticipation of Malcolm Tucker making his grand entrance.

When Malcolm did sweep into the room at one o’clock, all conversation came to a roaring halt, the silence as deafening as their previous chatter. His blue eyes were especially striking when coupled with the light grey sweater which hung to him flatteringly, and the black dress pants and shoes he wore were professional, yet casual, in their own way. His grey and white, slightly disheveled hair and the glasses he donned made him look every part the literary professor that he was. Clara smiled.   

“Ah, no don’t get up that’s fine,” Malcolm called, assessing the room with a fast sweeping glance. “I’m not Viagra.”

The room hummed with joint snickers and laughs. He enjoyed that line, and so did the section he taught yesterday.  

“I’m Malcolm Tucker,” he began the course, dropping his satchel on the long desk at the front of the room, writing his name for dramatic effect on a chalk board, “and this is Contemporary Drama, Thirty-Five Hundred. The University would prefer that you call me Professor, I would prefer that you call me Malcolm. If we are going to be take on these playwrights and their works together, we have to consider ourselves as academic equals.”

Malcolm brushed the chalk from his fingers and sat beside his satchel on top of the desk. His long legs swung freely, and there was hardly a movement from the class. He lingered a moment on each of their faces, memorizing them with ease. He paused a bit longer when his eyes fell upon Clara, and though she smiled, he did not let on as to how pleased he was to see her.

“It makes conversation easier,” he continued. “If you did not take the time to look over the course syllabus I sent out two weeks ago, we will read the following plays...”

The introductory lecture continued without being commonplace, which was a lesson in and of itself for Clara. While most students would hope that the class would last only twenty minutes, Malcolm managed to create an engaging first day that saw forty five minutes passing by in mere moments. They received a hard copy of the syllabus, class policy, and a class contract that he was in the middle of explaining.

“...so in short, there will probably be occasional swearing, and if you are offended by that sort of thing I recommend looking for another course,” he paused, judging the atmosphere of the room. “Your signature tells me that cursing every now and again isn’t going to send you into a homicidal rage.”

Everyone was silent in acceptance, save for one male towards the middle of the classroom, who had leaned closer to the girl sitting next to him.    

“Timothy Allerd,” Malcolm said coolly, “would you mind resuming your conversation after class. I still have a few minutes for closing remarks.”

The student who was apparently named Timothy blinked a few times, cocking his head in surprise. “Wait, me?”

“Yes, you. Your name is Timothy, and I’ve asked you to stop talking. Easy comprehension skills.”

“It’s just, how do you know my name already?”

“If you’re on my course list, I know your name,” he revealed, an expression somewhere between smug and exasperated on his face. “Which reminds me. If you’re on the waitlist and sticking about to see if anyone drops, meet me after class. I may be able to course action a few of you in.”

“What’s my name?” Called an Irish girl from the back, an interested look on her face.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?” Malcolm returned, the class humming in amusement. He scanned the room, his chest tightening at the look Clara was giving him. “Rebecca. Now, can we get on?”  

\--

“I’m impressed,” Clara said, leaning upon the doorframe of Malcolm’s office in Bryan Hall. His class ended a few hours ago, and Clara had just returned from teaching her own, but she couldn’t resist stopping at his office when she noticed he was in. He started slightly from his reading at her sudden appearance, but he looked at her over his glasses with amusement. “Hi, Malcolm.”

“Clara,” he replied, sweeping a glance over her. “What can I do for you?”

“Just wanted to say I was impressed with your opening lecture this morning,” she smiled sweetly.   

“Impressed with that?” Malcolm cleared his throat with the word, and he tried not to linger on her face for too long. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Clara swallowed slowly, wondering if she fabricated it, or if there really was an undertone of heat in his words, in the shade of his eyes. There one moment, gone with a blink and wry smile.

“You were quick with their names.”

“That gives me control over them from the outset,” he continued, shrugging. “I may try to make them feel at ease to create conversation, but I’m not one to let little things slide.”

“Timothy Allerd,” she laughed, remembering the way the student shrunk away from Malcolm after being reprimanded. Politely reprimanded, she would clarify, but it was all the same.

“Yeah, fucking _Tim_. He has another thing coming if he thinks side conversations are going to be acceptable.”   

Malcolm watched her properly as she laughed at his exaggerated annoyance, and a surge of something he hadn’t felt in a long while swept through him. She was expressive and youthful when she laughed, and he wanted to be a part of that. There was something capturing about her, not just the way she looked, but the way she _looked_. Her eyes. He wanted to understand what it was, but he didn’t like being wanting of others, and she was far too young to be anything more than a colleague or friend. Yet here she was.

“I can’t even imagine,” she announced with a smile, and suddenly he wondered if she knew who he was. The past was always lingering, always finding its way back into the present with the odd phone call, but did she know what that past entailed? Probably. But she didn’t seem to acknowledge it in her growing ease around him.

“By the way, one of my students brought this up to me after my lecture.” Clara stepped fully into his office, and Malcolm sat up in attention, his eyes following her hands as they reached into the bag around her shoulder. “She said she found it on one of the desks in the front of the room as she was leaving, mentioned that someone must have forgotten it.”

She placed a worn but clearly cared for novel on his desk, her fingers lingering on the surface. Her gaze was unrelenting and teasing, and they both wondered if she was flirting with him.

“ _Six Degrees of Separation_ ,” she continued, raising her eyebrows, “with my name in it. Only thing is, I don’t own a copy.”   

He shrugged coolly, not backing down from her eyes.

She unconsciously bit her lower lip as she shook her head. Definitely flirting. After a small silence shared between them she lifted the book from his desk, returning it to her bag.

“Anyway, I should let you get back to your reading. Have a good afternoon, Malc-”

“Coffee.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you like to get some coffee?” Malcolm clarified, preparing himself for any plausible reason that she couldn’t take him up on the offer.  

Clara looked at him in curious surprise before pulling herself from her thoughts, but the grin on her lips quickly reached her eyes.

“ _Really_? I mean yes, yes I would love some, uh coffee, with you,” Clara sighed, glaring at the puzzled yet amused look he was giving her. “Shut up and let’s go.”

Malcolm smiled genuinely, for the first time in a long while.

“Yes, boss.”      


	5. Later, August 26th 2014

_“Off to Tucker’s class, are you?” She asked too sweetly, the rolling tone of her voice matching the internal motion of Clara’s eyes._       

_“Yeah, I thought I’d satiate some curiosity,” she replied nonchalantly, but Nicola was shaking her head. “What?”_

_“The first day of class is just introductions. The real show begins in two days.”_

_“Well, I dunno, I figured it would be good to start at the beginning.”_

_“Oh,” she lingered on the sound, a grin creeping on her face. “That makes sense. Take good notes, he is a piece of work in the classroom.”_

_“What is he like outside of the classroom?” Nicola had begun to walk away, but Clara couldn’t stop the question from leaving her mouth._

_Nicola turned on the spot, a sort of hesitant grimace on her lips._

_“You know, I don’t advise taking a fancy to him.”_

_Clara looked at her defensively, wanting to protest the inference._

_“He’s cold and calculating,” Nicola almost looked sad as she went on, though the bouncing of syllables never stopped. “He doesn’t let anyone in. I’ve tried, but he’s guarded and private. He’ll entertain us every now and then with rare cameos at staff dinners, but none of us know him outside of academia, despite how hard we may try.”_

“Am I _that_ boring?”

“What?” Clara asked, quickly glancing up to him.

“I asked you a question, but you seemed lost in thought,” Malcolm replied, tilting his head to get a good look at her. Their height difference was rather hilarious, but something told him that she never did feel as small as she was. “I know sometimes I can be a boring fuck, but I thought Collins was rather interesting.”  

“No, you’re not really, I just remembered something is all,” she was honest, at least.

“Important?”

“It just may be.”

“Perhaps you should write it down,” he remarked gruffly, side stepping a student who seemed intent on staying her course. “Here we are.”

The shop was quaint and quiet, with few students and a decent array of pastries in its display window. It was all warm tones and wood panels, and it felt warm and cozy despite itself. Malcolm was well acquainted with the barista there, and she smiled when he approached the counter.

“The usual today, Mr. Tucker?”

“Aye, thank you Sam, and whatever my friend here would like,” he said, gesturing to Clara as he reached for his wallet.

“I can buy my own coffee, Malcolm, you don’t have to do that,” Clara protested, her mind repeating the word _friend_ like clockwork.

“I asked you to coffee, so calm yourself and order,” he chided, handing his credit card to the cashier, who gave him his coffee and a scone in return.

“Just a medium coffee, please,” she yielded, casting him a glance that fell somewhere between ‘thanks’ and ‘fuck you.’

Malcolm enjoyed his coffee black when he had a biscuit to go along with it, but he watched from the table he claimed for the both of them as Clara prepared hers to her liking. _Two spoons of sugar and a dash of cream_ , he made a mental note, already settling on the plan to bring her coffee in the future.

“So, Malcolm.”

“Clara.”

“Do you take all of the new professors to get coffee on their first day?”

“I suppose the answer to that would be yes. I buy coffee every morning, I haven't changed too much in the past few years.”

“You were the last hired professor? That was five years ago...”

“Checking up on me?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

“No,” Clara answered, unintentionally sharp.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and Malcolm contemplated the physics behind a black hole sucking them both up to avoid the potential awkwardness that might ensue. Clara shifted in her chair and accidentally brushed her foot along his shin, which resulted in her turning a delicious shade of red in the cheeks. Malcolm tastefully ignored it, though he needed a moment to descend from the ceiling.

“Are you from around here?” Tucker asked, pleased to have found a new point for conversation.

“I’m originally from Blackpool, but I moved here shortly after being hired.”

“When was that?”

“Spring.”

“Good, good.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve had the same place for years now. It’s a slight commute but I don’t mind it.”

“In the city?”

“Yeah, in the city.”

“Must be nice?”

“I live in a quiet area, but we have our fair share of shite.”

“Of course,” Clara sipped from her coffee, the warmth sending a shiver down her spine.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Malcolm asked, drinking slowly from his own cup. “The coffee.”

“Very, thank you.”

“It’s even better with a pastry,” Malcolm broke his scone in half, handing the larger piece to Clara. She accepted it graciously, but felt confused as to everything that was currently going on.

This was not Malcolm Tucker, surely. The man she heard about was bitter and arrogant, reliable for violent turns of mood and verbal abuse which sent larger men away with their tail between their legs. The man she read about did not take colleagues to coffee, or split biscuits over friendly conversation. _He’s cold and calculating. He doesn’t let anyone in._

But here he was.

Clara watched him as he absently dunked his half of the scone in his beverage, his slender fingers delicate on the slightly crumbling pastry. She held back a laugh when he leaned forward quickly to take a bite of the coffee laden scone, a sudden youthfulness washing over his features with the action. He looked up at her from his new position, and his eyes were expressive and kind, and she thought for a moment that it was a trick of the light. But he lingered there when he noticed her watching, even if it was only for a moment.

 _You don’t know him, Clara,_ she reminded herself as he brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, _but he is offering you the opportunity to._

“Thank you, Malcolm. You know, I real-”

 Clara quieted down when she heard a ringtone, and as if he were in a shootout for his life, Malcolm’s hand drew his cell phone from his pocket and swiped a thumb across the screen.

Muscle memory.    

“Do you need to take that?”

“It’s just an alarm. Have to take my birth control.”

“Very funny.”

“You think so?” He replied, reaching into his trouser’s pocket and pulling out a cigarette case. Clara sighed, disappointed. “Don’t give me that look, I just use it to hold some medicine.”

“Can’t be normal and just carry a medicine case,” she quipped, earning a snort.

“Normal is boring,” he murmured, taking two pills and swallowing them dry. He chased them with coffee and sighed.

“Headache?” She asked, eyeing the remaining aspirin in the case.

“Not quite,” he said with a distinct weariness lining his words. “Don’t get old, Clara.”

“I don’t know that I can help that.”

“Wrong,” he groaned, an amused expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?”  

“You’re supposed to tell me I’m not fucking old, but that ship sailed and fucking sank, killed everybody onboard.”

Clara laughed at that, and his eyes crinkled in their shared merriment, she at his words, and he at her smile. They were an odd pair, sitting and chatting as if they were the oldest of friends already. They discussed her schooling, the decision between applying to graduate school or becoming a secondary level educator, and the little things she was looking forward to now that she was here.

At this point in the day, the hot August sun was shining strongly through the open shop windows, and there were golden flecks of light peaking through Clara’s brown hair. The same sunlight bathed Malcolm in a warm glow, his pale blue eyes reflecting brilliantly as he watched her without reprieve. At some point in their conversation Sam offered them free refills on their coffee, which may have been the moment when they unconsciously leaned closer to one another across the table.

Two hours passed without a second lingering too long, and by the time Clara’s own phone alerted her to a new text message, they covered a varying range of conversation topics that left the other only wanting to know more. It was rare to find such easy fluidity with another person, and both of them were instilled with a sense of grand surprise at how quickly they took to one another. Sure, there were heated moments where they would disagree on an education policy, or the importance of separating academia from socials, but Malcolm was careful.

“It’s Danny,” she revealed, answering his prying look as she typed on her phone, only then realizing that he wouldn’t necessarily know who that was. “He’s in the maths department, just hired.”

Malcolm knew he shouldn’t feel a certain protective jealousy, but it was difficult not to. He was taking a risk, one that he hadn’t allowed himself for a long time, so of course there would be a handsome young fellow to keep him in his place.

“You two are friendly?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, half shrugging, “we get together on the weekends.”

“I see,” Malcolm contained his displeasure, absently twisting the gold band on his left hand.

The motion caught Clara’s attention, and though she brought her gaze back to Malcolm’s face just as quickly as she had dropped it to his hands, she was careful to not betray the disappointment she felt. _How did you not notice that he was married, Clara? Idiot._

“You didn’t mention your spouse when we were talking about your family,” Clara accused without sounding accusatory, and he gaped slightly, unsure of what to say.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “that’s because I’m no longer married.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I j-”

“Why are you sorry? Don’t be mental. It isn’t something worth apologizing over.”

A part of Clara wanted to hear the history behind his marriage, the reason why it ended, why he still wore his ring, but that could surely be a conversation for another day. Maybe, if it weren’t too private. Malcolm finished the rest of his second cup, and Clara looked down as her phone vibrated against the wood table.

“If you have to meet him, we can part ways,” Tucker offered, sweeping a few askew crumbs from the table. “We have been sitting here for over two hours now.”

“He’s just asking about how class went today, we don’t have to stop talking,” her voice tapered at the end, sudden shyness creeping into her being. It was the way he was looking at her, seeing everything at once without feeling the need to pull away. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it was just... _new_. “Besides, he’s got dinner with his girlfriend and I am not about to invite myself for third wheeling. I don’t recommend the experience.”

Malcolm froze.

“You two aren’t together?” he asked, trying not to sound relieved or too interested.

“No, heavens no,” Clara made a noise of dismissal. “He’s a great guy and all, but even if he were single, he’s just a good friend.”

“It’s good to have a friend,” he rambled a bit, shifting slightly as the hours of sitting were catching up to his limbs. “This has been a nice afternoon, Clara, thank you for having it with me.”   

“Thank you for inviting me, Malcolm,” Clara didn’t give him a smile to go along with her words, but the sincerity and earnestness in her expression was all he needed. “We should do this again.”

“I’d like that.”

_He’s cold and calculating. Guarded and private. He doesn’t let anyone in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foreshadowing is strong with this one. And two other chapters before it. *slinks away into the shadows*


	6. September 10th, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been revised! The ending is different than before. Also, I would like to point out the change in chapter titles - the dates become important in the future, and are also meant to help with the passing of time.

“Come in or fuck off, will you?” Malcolm barked at the trepid knock on his door. He was burning a trail in his office floor, his heels falling heavily on the carpet as he paced. Clara pushed the door open and peered in around the corner, a look of disapproval on her face as she closed it behind her. She could have been a student for all he knew. Or Dean Greason. Two pleasant weeks had passed since they shared an afternoon of conversation, and never once had she been the target of frustrated swearing.  

“Oh, Clara, I’m sorry I didn’t mean anything by it,” he apologized with a hand over his Blackberry, his eyes focused on her until he heard a voice shouting at him through the phone. “I’m not talking to you, you great silly cow.”

Malcolm watched her as she made her way through his office, everything in a neat disarray, files and essays piled thickly on his desk. The room smelt of books and coffee and citrusy fruits. She looked over his bookshelves with interest, running her fingers along the spines of those that were especially worn, a few of the titles surprising to see. She knew he wouldn’t mind the intrusion, as he had ushered her into the room despite being on the phone a few times now.

Such was their relationship. Their study hours were at similar times, and they would find themselves in each other’s office, silently reading or writing without needing a specific reason to have company. Just being there was enough for the both of them.       

“Yeah, that doesn’t actually encourage me to have a sense of urgency when making these arrangements.” He paused, listening with closed eyes as the muffled voice on the other line went off. “Right, well if you decide to actually do that, I’ll provide the razors, now quit fuckin’ faffing around and using empty threats, I’ve got a schedule too.”

Clara was privately horrified at the violence of his phrase, but when she turned to serve him a rather heated glare, the mirthful smile which wrinkled his face left her staring curiously. He winked knowingly at her, the guttural laugh which resounded around the room creating an incredible tightness in her chest.  

“Right yeah, fifteen minutes,” he waved his hand around dismissively. “Ah, no I’m getting another call. Yeah, yeah, love you too.”

“Who the hell were you talking to like that?” Clara asked quickly, before he delved into giving someone else his attention.

“My sister, Anne.”

“And do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“She gave it to me,” Malcolm smirked.

“Tucker,” he announced, switching lines. The long groan that issued from his mouth was nothing short of annoyed. In fact, if there were a spectrum of annoyance, the sound he made would have brought about new studies and spectrums. It was an interesting sound, but Clara was sure it was not unfamiliar for his vocal chords to produce. “I thought I told you not to fucking call me anymore.”

“Well, ye olde cuntith, sometimes I like to give you a ring and hear if you’re still fucking breathing,” Jamie Macdonald was practically smug at the reaction he received, as it was his privilege and honor to randomly drop in on Tucker’s life. “Besides, I’ve got a que-”

“Yeah I’m fucking breathing,” he growled, his voice a bit louder than what was appropriate, “and if you phone me again I’ll shove your mobile so far down your throat, you’ll call that bitchfaced twat of an ex of yours every time you scratch your worthless balls.”   

Malcolm all but threw his phone as he hung up, his expression stone cut and cold.       

 _There he is_ , Clara thought,  _Iago with a Blackberry_.

“What did you say?” His voice was hushed, but certainly dangerous. She flinched back when he turned on her, an aggressively questioning look on his face.

Clara felt like a little kid who was on the receiving end of anger after accidentally touching something she shouldn’t have. He looked like a predator, all snarls and glaring eyes, and she rewound the past few moments to try and understand where it was coming from.  _He was angry on the phone but I didn’t...._ Her thoughts trailed off, realization hitting her with the force of a double-decker.  _I fucking said that out loud, didn’t I?_

 “Malcolm,” she softened her voice instinctively, a sincerely apologetic expression rushing over her face.

“No, that isn’t how this works,” he bared his teeth, stepping closer. “A little light reading on the side, Clara?”

“No! Yes, but-”

“There he is,” he quoted her, clenching his fists. “There he  _fucking_  is.  _You_ said that.”

Clara felt her throat closing around her, and the room was getting claustrophobically small under his stare. He was using the full advantage of his height, and she shrank away as he continued towards her.

“Are you fucking me about? Is that what this is? Reading about it isn’t enough, so you thought you’d entertain the old sod in the hopes that he has a shite revival tour?”

 “Malcolm, please...”

“ _Iago with a Blackberry_. I may have gone grey,  _sweetheart_ , but my memory is working perfectly fucking fine,” he growled. “I worked my fucking bones into dust so I could walk with my head held high after years of being dragged mercilessly through the shit of cunts more imposing than you, and you have the nerve to fucking fuck with me by dropping this?”

Clara could retreat no further, her back pressed against one of his bookcases as he finally ceased his advance. She could feel heat coming off of him he was so close, but she didn’t dare push him away. She felt paralyzed.    

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice was quiet, then, and his shoulders dropped as if the weight of the world had become too much to burden himself with. Clara looked at him properly and found hurt in his eyes. He looked betrayed, and she had the blood on her hands.

A door opened and slammed somewhere down the hall, but they stayed frozen in time. The patter of feet came closer, the name ‘Eddie’ being tossed into the otherwise silent hall. He could feel her breath on his neck, the scent of lavender and ink assaulting his senses, and he regretted his loss of control. Her eyes were shining, whether in fright or sadness he did not know, but it filled him with self loathing.  

“Eddie, that door right there,” a female’s voice outside the office said, which was followed by excited knocking.

“Uncle Malc!”

They both heard them, but Malcolm remained where he was. It wasn’t until the feminine voice called for him and louder knocking ensued that he stepped back. It wasn’t until he moved away to answer the door that Clara allowed herself to breathe again.

In mere seconds Malcolm transformed. When he opened the door he was rushed by a little boy, no older than five, who launched himself into Tucker’s waiting arms. They were both laughing as he lifted the boy up high, giving him an affectionate smile before pulling him in for a hug. He looked ten years younger, a gentle giant with a smiling child.  

“Are you ready for a fun afternoon, Eddie?” He asked, his voice an octave higher than normal.

“Nothing  _too_  fun, Malcolm,” the woman, who Clara presumed was Anne, chastised him, “he is still running off the sweets from the last time you came ‘round.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mocked, pressing a kiss to each of her cheeks. “Anne, this is Clara, Clara, Anne.”

Clara extended her hand shyly to his sister, who returned it with a surprisingly strong grip. She looked twenty years his junior, though it was only eight years which separated the two Tuckers. She was beautiful without making a spectacle of herself. Her brownish red hair was curly about her shoulders, and she had a certain wisdom about her eyes that Clara decided was a part of the family.

“Finally, a face to the name,” Anne commented as she none too shyly looked Clara over. “Malcolm speaks highly of you, you know. He’ll be disappointed that I’ve told you, but one of us had to say it.”

“Hardly the time, Anne,” he dismissed her statement, putting down a squirming Eddie. Clara gave him a disheartened, apologetic look, which he didn’t bother acknowledging. “Where’s Lucy?”

“She’s in the car. I didn’t want to get a ticket; you know how they can be about their parking.”

“Tell her I’ve said hello, yeah? I hardly see her anymore between her schooling and the clubs she does.”

“Well, she’s trying to rule the world. Can’t imagine who gave her that idea,” Anne sighed, bending over to wipe stray snot from Eddie’s lip. “Mum’s got to go shopping for a bit with sissy, you’re going to stay here with Uncle Malc. Aye?”

“Can we do the coloring?” Eddie asked, pulling on Malcolm’s pant leg.

“Of course we can, we can do whatever you’d like. Within reason,” he hastily added, the warning look from Anne received and understood.

“Thank you for watching him, Malcolm, he would have been a little terror at the shops. I’ll be two hours, at most,” Anne said, kissing his cheek. “Nice to meet you, Clara.”

“And you,” Clara returned with a forced, but well put on smile. Malcolm was expressionlessly watching her as Anne made her exit. 

“Can we do a dragon?” Eddie asked excitedly, pulling Malcolm from his thoughts and towards his desk by his right index finger. “With wings?”

“Of course,” he answered, reclaiming his finger and rummaging through desk drawers.

“Do you want to color too?”

It took a second for Clara to realize Eddie was asking her, and she wasn’t certain what her answer should be. He was freckled and blonde, with blue eyes and a few teeth missing from his adorably wide smile. She looked from him to Malcolm, who was giving her the opportunity to make her own decision.

“I would love to,” Clara spoke sweetly, “but I have to go read some boring books.”

“Miss Clara will come back in a little bit, though,” Malcolm stated, placing a sketch pad and tin of colored pencils on his desk. “Okay?”

The question was directed towards Eddie, but Clara understood that it was indeed for her. Blue eyes met brown in acceptance, and she left without a second glance.

\--

Clara shut the door to her office and locked it before pressing her back to its surface and sliding down to the floor unceremoniously.

 _Couldn’t have fucked up any more if you tried, Oswald_ , she thought scathingly, wiping at tears that threatened to take the jump from her eyes. She let them. Why wouldn’t she? In such a short time, she found an odd sort of comfort by his side. He was a gentleman beyond the sense of the word, and his knowledge and passion for the arts was remarkable to behold. There were times when he would fall into foul moods, but when he was with her he would sit quietly in her office armchair and listen to her talk about whatever was on her mind. He was an oncoming storm, but he was conscientious of the damage he left in his wake.  

She understood why Nicola, and the others in the department, found Malcolm to be distant and cold. He was. But it wasn’t until twenty minutes ago that she actually comprehended why. Beneath it all, the hard exterior, gritted teeth and vulgarities, he was just as vulnerable as everyone else. When the armor fell, Clara saw it in his eyes; the defeated acceptance of her betrayal. He let her in, the first person in heaven knows how long, and that was how she treated him.

She rose from the floor, only to deposit herself heavily at her desk. She rearranged a few things multiple times, never satisfied with how straight they were no matter how many times she nudged them. After five more minutes of nothing, she settled on sifting through some Yeats poems, each one less helpful to distract her from her mood than the last.

 _You can’t leave it that way, Clara,_ she thought,  _and you can’t stay here, sulking at your own stupidity._

Resolved, Clara made her way back to Malcolm’s office, which was still open from when she left. When she looked in she saw Malcolm sitting at his desk with Eddie atop his lap, his arms reaching around his nephew, both of them armed with a pencil and drawing on the sketchpad.   

“No, that’s very good,” Malcolm encouraged, adjusting his glasses with his free hand.

“I drawed him with blue eyes, like me,” Eddie mumbled.

“Oh, very nice Eddie,” he crooned, looking at the shading appreciatively. “Should we have him breathing fire?”

“Yes!”

“Here’s the red,” Malcolm offered, waiting patiently for his nephew to finish up with the blue.

“Can I help?” Clara asked quietly, startling both of them.

“Miss Clara!” Eddie practically threw the blue colored pencil as he moved about, trying to get off of Malcolm’s lap. Tucker rolled the chair back and helped the boy down, who then swept the sketchpad clear off of the desk, knocking the tin of colored pencils to the floor. “Look!”

Clara knelt down to his level as he ran towards her, and when he showed her the drawing they were working on, she was sincerely in awe. The cartoon dragon looked professionally drawn, and the shading that Eddie did excitedly made it all the more perfect.

“Wow,” Clara gasped, “you’re doing a great job Eddie. Look at those blue eyes!”

He grinned his slightly toothless grin and plopped as only the young do onto the floor, lying on his stomach so he could continue drawing from his new place in the room.  

“Here you go,” Malcolm handed Eddie the red colored pencil and ruffled his hair. He cast Clara a long glance before turning his attention to the fallen tin behind his desk.

“Need a hand?” Clara asked sheepishly, crouching down across from Malcolm as he busied himself.

“If you’d like,” he replied, noncommittally.    

“Malcolm, earlier, with what I said,” Clara began quietly, dodging his hand as they both collected pencils, “I never meant to say that aloud, and I recognize the fact that me thinking it is not any better. Yes, I admit, I took interest in you because I wanted to see if everything I ever heard, or read, was true. I wanted to see for myself if the feared Malcolm Tucker was all he was built up to be. But that was before I  _met_  you.”

Their fingers brushed slightly as they both reached for a maroon shade, but Clara was the only one to keep her hand where it was. She sighed.

“That Saturday, when you first knocked on my office door, I was terrified. I still am, really, but I have never been so happy to be terrified in my entire life. I  _care_ , Malcolm,” she grabbed his hand, holding onto it tightly. He narrowed his eyes but didn’t protest. “I care about what you think, about what you say during our shared office hours. I care about the way you look at me when I’m giving my lecture, the way I look at you during yours. It’s been two bloody weeks since you and I first talked properly, and I feel pathetically attached to you. I am terrified of that, Malcolm, but it just seems, I dunno,  _right_. It feels right.”

“You sound absolutely daft, you know that?” Malcolm peered at her over the rim of his glasses, the soft look around his eyes the only thing reassuring her that something got through. He freed his hand from her grasp and gently cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb along her tear stained skin. "I had no right to react the way I did, and don't you ever,  _ever_ , apologize to me again for saying or thinking something. If you feel the need to censor yourself for my sake, I don't deserve to be a part of your life."

 _I’m not my father_ , Malcolm thought defensively, blood rushing through his veins as Clara leaned into his touch.

“And so you know,” he said in a low voice, drowning in the expanse of her expressively stunning brown eyes, “I’m terrified, too.”

Clara’s eyes grew wide.

“Honestly,” she whispered, relishing in the softness of his touch.

“More than I have been in years,” Malcolm nodded. “More than I was a minute ago.”

Clara looked at him quizzically as he withdrew his hand and returned to tidying the pencils from the floor. 

“What changed?”

“You ca-”

“What are ya doin?” Eddie interrupted with a small voice, leaning by Clara’s shoulder.

“Aye, Eddie, what’re  _you_  doing with your fingers in your mouth?” Malcolm slid forward on his knee and swiped his hand away, cringing in honest disgust as he wiped residual drool onto his trousers. “Hasn’t your mother told you not to do that?”

“No,” he lied, fidgeting in place.

“I know that isn’t true,” Tucker sighed, watching him squirm. “What, do you need the loo or something?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, okay,” Malcolm extended his arms and pulled Eddie to him, lifting him as he rose from the floor. He looked to Clara with a flashing smile, a welcome sight for sore and recently crying eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

She watched them leave with adoration, the way Malcolm held Eddie to him and playfully bounced him in his arms a rather brilliant spectacle to behold. If only the rest of the world could see him like this, then perhaps they would come to recognize the humanity beneath the mind at work.

Clara finished collecting the pencils, and afterwards recovered the sketch book from the floor. She flipped through the pages, not all of them a collaborative work between a clearly skilled artist and his ‘apprentice.’ There were portraits of various individuals she recognized as her colleagues, landscapes of the University and surrounding area, a charming sketch of Eddie with who she presumed to be his sister, Lucy. Each of the lines were bold and confident, and even the less detailed of his drawings were remarkable.

She had tried her hand at art, once, but found herself frustrated with how everything turned out. Instead, she transferred those attentions to cooking, though she found she was as competent in that as her father. Which meant she was incompetent. But there was at least an effort.  

“...and one day you’re going to be big enough to do that, too,” she heard Malcolm say as he waltzed back into the office, Eddie on his heels with slightly wet hands.

“Malcolm, these are incredible,” Clara was pointing at a portrait of Anne, and she was satisfied when he turned a darker shade in the cheeks.

No response. He shied away from the compliment by busying himself with his shirt cuffs, avoiding her gaze as she pressed on through the sketches. 

"Anne wont be back for another hour, and I'm going to take Eddie for lunch," he revealed, glancing at his wristwatch. "You're welcome to come?" 

"I appreciate the offer, but you and Eddie have a good time," she closed the sketchbook with delicate fingers that Malcolm would have liked to intertwine his with. As she passed him to leave the office she pressed a folded paper into his palm, the look in her eyes mirroring the mischief his previously held for her the first time they spoke to one another. "Let me know when you're free." 

Malcolm watched her curiously as she left before unfolding the paper with the precision of a blind man at a shooting range. His eyes widened. 

"Clara," he barked, lunging into the hall.

"Yes?" She smiled sweetly. She knew what his look was about, and she knew that he knew what  _her_  look was about. 

"If I phone this number, are you or your gran going to answer?" 

Clara approached him slowly, a look of mock pondering on her face. 

"I dunno. Call it later and find out," she teased, definitely flirting, before rising on her tiptoes and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Malcolm barely had time to react and she was already five paces away from him, the spreading heat in his cheeks coursing through his veins. Nearly an hour ago he was certain that that was it, that she had gained what she wanted from him and would be satisfied to leave him with a fresh emptiness to dwell upon. He had never been so pleased to be so wrong.

"Whomever answers is getting an invite to dinner," he called after her, his voice deep and dark as he slid the paper into his pocket with unnecessary care. 

Clara turned on the spot and offered him the kind of look which would have broken the heart of a whole man, but he was already wonderfully broken under her presence and found that only death could rid him of the overwhelming essence of her. Two weeks passed since their afternoon of coffee and conversation, but he was smitten and lost and  _she let him in_.    

"I look forward to it."     


	7. September 13th, 2014

“Word on the street, Clara Oswald, is that you and Malcolm Tucker are a thing,” Danny asked without asking, their previous silence due to the unhappy pile of marking they both were working through.

“A thing?”

“Yes, a thing.”

“According to who?”

“Nicola Something-Or-The-Other. She seemed pretty keen to tell me.”

“I’m not surprised,” she practically groaned. “When did you talk to Nicola?”

“Ran into her in Alderman Library, she must’ve seen us together at some point,” he shrugged, scratching his head. “She seemed a bit jealous. Previous history?”

“Definitely not,” Clara scoffed, flipping to the second page of her eighth essay of the night.

“So you’re a thing, then,” Danny stated with finality, and Clara wanted to slap him for the ridiculous gossipy tone he put on.

“If liking someone’s company and appreciating their opinion is a thing, then yes, we are a _thing_.”

Danny stopped chewing on the pencil between his lips long enough to really gauge the expression on Clara’s face. She was _here_ , with him, and there, with _him_ , and Pink wasn’t entirely sure if he was welcome in that sphere. 

“But I suppose there’s more to it than that,” she trailed on thoughtfully, her eyes crinkling in contemplation. _Much more you big flirt, you kissed his cheek without a professional thought on the horizon._

“Must be more,” Danny leaned forward in interest, settling his grading on the coffee table before him. They were often like this on the weekends, him sitting on the couch behind the coffee table, her cross legged on the floor across from him, each doing their work with mediocre Chinese take-out between them. It was a good means of being productive while enjoying easy company on quiet nights. “Clara, we’ve been friends for a month now. I care about you, you know? You’re like my short, more professional, controlling little sister, and I can’t help feeling a bit protective of you.”

“And?” Clara raised an eyebrow, which was both an instigative motion as well as a threatening one.

“ _And_ , I’d like to know that you aren’t going to be hurt. He doesn’t exactly give off the “knight in shining armor” vibe.”

“What makes you think I’m looking for that?”

“I know you, Clara. You’re into the impossible heroes. What makes him impossible?”

_August 28 th_

_Clara licked her thumb and turned another page of Long Day’s Journey Into Night, curled up on the armchair in her office. She didn’t lecture for another four hours, so she spent the time reading. Long Day’s Journey was the first play on the syllabus for Contemporary Drama 3500, and she found she couldn’t put it down. A broken and afflicted family, riddled with addictions and the loss of a true home. Difficult to avoid feeling something for the long gone Mary Tyrone._

_The rapt of knuckles on her slightly ajar door slowly dragged her from the text, and she shuffled to the source with book still in hand._

_“Good morning, Malcolm,” she greeted him as she pulled the door open further, “how can I help you?”_

_“Clara,” he acknowledged, pressing a warm travel coffee cup towards her, “It’s early and I saw you were in when I stepped out for some, so I brought you some coffee. Two sugars and a dash of cream, right?”_

_“Right,” Clara answered a bit breathily, the shock of the gesture making oxygen seem a bit less reachable than before. She shifted the book from her right hand and took the beverage with a smile, and she followed his eyes from her face to her hands._

_“How far along are you?” Malcolm asked, nodding at the text._

_“I’m rereading act one. I’m at the bit where Mary’s fussing with her hair after teasing Tyrone about his snoring.”_

_“The descent into madness,” Malcolm exhaled with a grim face, all show for the theme of the play. “I try to avoid reading these in my office, I always catch myself saying their lines aloud.”_

_Clara laughed at the thought and he pursed his lips._

_“The words were meant to be read aloud,” Clara began, an idea forming that she wasn’t sure he would be enthusiastic about, “weren’t they?”_

_“It’s a play, of course they were.”_

_“Do you have your copy?”_

_It took Malcolm less than two seconds to understand what she was implying, and he shook his head with amazement. Five minutes later they were behind closed doors, drinking coffee and dramatizing the long decline of a battered family. It was both outlandishly out of character for the man Clara misunderstood Malcolm to be, and entirely within the bounds of the man Malcolm once was._

“Well...”

_September 1 st_

_“You look in a bad mood,” Clara stated carefully as Malcolm let her in his office. “Rough afternoon?”_

_“Long weekend’s more like it,” he growled, though there was a hint of distress thrown into his cocktail of frustration and annoyance. “My sister is going through a rough patch with her fucking infidelity ridden hack of a husband and I was put in charge of her kids while they sorted out paperwork with their lawyers.”_

_“Sorry to hear about what your sister is going through,” Clara mumbled sincerely, sitting in one of his office chairs. She found that she was often able to brighten his serious moods, which surprised her as much as it surprised him. Truth be told, she liked to see him smile, and she was never one to avoid a challenging tide of his. “Tired **and** in a bad mood...I caught you at a good time.” _

_“Yeah, yeah,” he waved at her dismissively before rubbing his hands over his face._

_“Have you tried counting to ten?”_

_Malcolm glared through his fingers._

_“How about hoovering?”_

_“I’m not in the mood for levity, Clara, I haven’t had much of any sleep since Friday night.”_

_He sounded weary, and she exhaled evenly._

_“The armchair in my office reclines,” she suggested, trying to keep her face from being too committed to any one emotion. None of the revealing ones, at least. “You’re welcome to doze off for a bit.”_

_“That’s very kind of you, but I’m not one to impose myse-”_

_“We can swap offices for a bit. I’ll do my grading in here, you sleep for as long as you need. Or are allowed to, whichever comes first.”_

_In the end Clara ushered him from his office and into hers, showed him how to work the armchair, gathered what she thought she would need, and left him grumbling and slightly confused. She loved the way he looked when she surprised him. He brought a book with him, insisting that he would only spend the time reading, and she merely shrugged and closed the door. After a half an hour she realized she left her mobile on the desk, and very quietly she let herself in._

_Clara swallowed heavily at the sight before her._

_Still in his glasses, Malcolm was snoring quietly, with one of his arms dangling over the side of the chair while the other hugged the book to his chest, his ankles crossed over one another as he stretched past the reach of the recliner. She pocketed her phone quickly and made to leave, but his peculiar gravity pulled her back. Gently, she removed the frames from around his ears, all the while fighting the urge to run her fingers through his hair. ‘Handsome bastard,’ she thought, taking the opportunity to really get a good look at him. She tried to before, but he glared and sent her away with a half-heartened command._

_Later that day he thanked her with an unnecessary box of her favorite candies, a wink, and a few kind words that she lost in the translation of his eyes._

Clara cleared her throat. 

_September 3 rd_

_“Why are you so infuriating?” Clara practically shouted, her words rebounding off of the walls. “I understand I haven’t come around, but that doesn’t mean-”_

_The tears were falling freely from her eyes, the tremble in her voice exaggerated due to the strength she tried to put behind her words. It was not often that she received a phone call from her dad, and it was even rarer for him to call with the intent of reprimanding her for something._

_“Of course I care!”_

_It had been a few months since she saw him, and at times he was prone to getting emotional on dates that meant something to him and her mother. Nine years on and the void was still as deep and empty as ever. Clara understood this, because she felt it, too._

_“Dad, I’ve had enough, of this. Call me tomorrow.”_

_She ended the call after he mumbled goodbyes, but without the need for appearing strong she broke down in on herself. Her sobs wracked her body, and though she tried to keep sound to a minimum, she let a livid ‘Fuck’ out into the open._

_“Not now, please,” Clara called out, wiping tears from her cheeks at the rather soft knocked which echoed in the room. She was ready to hurl venomous words at whomever it was breaching the door, but when she saw the concerned look on Malcolm’s face, her shoulders dropped._

_“Hey,” Malcolm tested the waters, watching her closely as he entered and closed the door behind him. He never saw her this way before, but my god did it hurt._

_“Hi.”_

_She seemed so small; a sharp contrast to the normally confident set of her shoulders, the spark of cleverness in her eyes. Without giving much consideration to the action, he crossed to the middle of the floor and opened his arms to her, a silent invitation she accepted without hesitation._

_Her arms were pressed to her chest as she closed the distance between them, and once he felt the impact of her body against his, he wrapped his arms around her tightly. He could feel her trembling, the shuddering breaths he heard telling of the tears she continued to cry._

_“I’ve got you,” he reassured her, rubbing a hand along the top of her back. “Any way I can help?”_

_“I don’t want to talk about it, Malcolm,” she cried lightly into his chest, her hands tightly gripping at the material of his grey fleece._

_“You don’t have to,” he whispered soothingly, the rise and fall of his chest calming beneath her cheek. Her breathing fell into rhythm with his, the tears subsiding as he held her. As she calmed, the only thing she could think about was how safe she felt in his arms._

 “...everything.”

“Everything,” Danny repeated, the way he said it letting her know that her answer was precisely as vague as it was.

“What have you heard about him?” Clara put the essay down, work forgotten in the midst of their topic of conversation.

“What everyone has heard about him. That he’s manipulative and cold, insensitive, foul-mouthed, violent, and less likely to be hugged if the choice were between him and a wolf,” Danny added with hopeful amusement as Clara’s expression dissipated from noncommittal to impatient. “Other than the fact that he is apparently a very good professor, I only know what I know from the press.”

“That’s what I knew, too,” she confirmed, leaning forward on the coffee table. “Nicola told me a few weeks ago that he _was_ cold and calculating, that he didn’t let anyone close enough to see if he was anything more.”

“But he’s let _you_ in,” Danny commented, absorbed by the conversation.  

Clara nodded.

“He’s been to all my lectures, we’ve gone out for coffee, and we’re always in each other’s offices, talking or reading.”

“And he’s different than what we’ve known?”

“He’s still foul-mouthed and cold,” she recalled their misunderstanding three days prior, “but that’s a very thin, yet fortified exterior of the person he _actually_ is. There’s so much more, Danny. He’s an entirely different man to what we all think. _That_ is what makes him impossible.”

They sat in silence.

“It sounds to me as if you and Malcolm Tucker are a thing,” Danny concluded, a softer expression on his face than she expected.       

“Well, we _are_ having dinner Tuesday night,” she revealed quietly, a certain excitement pulling on the corners of her mouth.

Danny shook his head, replacing the pencil between his teeth as Clara shot him a mischievous grin. She didn’t tell him that she was counting the hours with consuming anticipation, and she didn’t realize that Malcolm was doing precisely the same.   


	8. September 16th 2014

Malcolm shifted his car into park, double checking the address on his navigation system and the one Clara provided him via text messaging. 68 Sherwood Street. It was a quaint neighborhood, the brick housing simple yet cozy looking. He left the car running as he exited it, straightening his dinner jacket as he approached her home.

He inhaled deeply before rapping his knuckles on the front door, straightening his jacket again as he stepped back, waiting for her to answer. He knew he looked fine, his black dress slacks and dinner jacket slim fit and pristinely ironed, his white dress shirt adorned with a skinny black tie, but he found himself second guessing his attire. The restaurant they were going to called for formal dress attire, but perhaps the tie was too much. He caught himself adjusting it needlessly when the door opened.

 _My god_ , Malcolm thought, returning the broad smile that Clara offered him as she closed the door behind her. She was wearing tall black heels and a mid thigh black dress, with sheer long sleeves and white fabric along the collar. She looked absolutely breathtaking, with her hair pulled back and bangs flowing, and Malcolm knew he was _beyond_ smitten. He was caught up in everything about her. _Fuck._         

“You look beautiful, Clara,” he complimented, sliding his hands into his pockets when she glanced down to her attire.

“Thank you, Malcolm,” she blushed slightly, looking him over with a tight smile. She believed he was handsome prior to this evening, but now that she saw him in a jacket and tie she wouldn’t mind if he wore that every day. Or didn’t wear it, now that she consciously recognized the slight acceleration of her heartbeat at the way he was looking at her. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He shrugged with amusement and led her to his vehicle, opening the passenger side door as she stared, wide eyed.

“What kind of car is this?”

“It’s a Jaguar XF,” Malcolm replied nonchalantly, hoping to avoid dwelling on the subject for too long. “I suppose you could call it the result of my midlife crisis.”

Which, as it turned out, was an actual fucking crisis.

“Wow,” she practically whistled,  running her hands over the fine interior. “I wouldn’t call this a crisis. Very James Bond. So where exactly are we going?”

“Artusi.”

“Artusi?” Clara exclaimed, turning towards him excitedly. Malcolm grinned. “I have heard so many great things about that restaurant.”

“Aye, I have, too,” Malcolm confirmed, checking his mirrors as they made their way through Reading traffic. “Better than the fuckin’ Tai t–”

“Hey,” Clara smacked at his arm, “there are few things better than Tai take out.”

“Whatever you say,” he shrugged theatrically, heat creeping up around his collar, muddling his rationale and not so subliminally urging him to take her hand in his.    

Malcolm refrained, but when they parked for the evening, he offered his arm as they made their way to Artusi. Clara accepted without hesitation, the act as natural as if they had done it before. It all felt new and strange and unpredictable but oddly familiar and easy between them. Neither of them was sure of themselves, but neither let on to that fact beyond the conversation they had behind his desk those few days ago.    

-

“Good evening sir, name for your reservation?” The host asked, polite and straight backed as the pair approached him.

“Evening,” Malcolm chimed, his tone light in anticipation, “two, under Tucker.”

Clara squeezed his arm tighter in her own excitement, and the shimmering of glee in her eyes was met with the warmth of his, and he patted the hand that she had gripped around the bend of his elbow.

“Right this way.”

Clara looked around the restaurant in awe, the white tablecloths and deep blue dishes complementing the dark hues of the walls. There was already a lively buzz in the dining room, with couples and families in their best dress talking in varying volumes about whatever tickled their fancy. They were shown to a table closer to the back of the restaurant, with a clear view of the pristine open kitchen, and a little more privacy for conversation.

“Your server will be right with you,” the host smiled politely as he placed their menus down.

“Thank you,” Malcolm nodded.

Clara sat softly in the chair Malcolm pulled out for her, instantly brushing her fingers over the polished silverware. It was a beautiful restaurant, full of heavenly smells and joyful talk. She watched as Malcolm took the seat across from her, his eyes skirting from her to the rest of the restaurant. He looked slightly flustered but devilishly attractive, and she smiled.

“What?”

“Just you,” she answered, leaning forward and resting her arms on the table.

Malcolm cleared his throat and put on his glasses in a futile effort to avoid staring any longer than he already had. When their waitress came round with a basket of fresh bread, all bouncing laughs and compliments for Clara’s attire, they ordered two glasses of red wine based on her enthusiastic recommendations. They silently glanced over the menus, though they occasionally shared comments on the choices.

“So,” Clara started, lowering her menu, creasing her brow when Malcolm tensed slightly at her tone, “I have a few questions, and now that we are settled in I know you can’t really avoid them.”

“Are you going to make me regret this?” He teased, though there was an internal voice which reprimanded him for the small honesty of the question.    

“No, of course not,” she laughed. _I hope not..._

“Right, go ahead then,” he crossed his arms and leaned back.

“Why are you different towards me?” Clara asked seriously, her voice smaller in stature than she wanted, though she was pleased to have gotten the question out at all. She didn’t want to offend him, or insinuate that he had ulterior motives, but there was something about every interaction she had with him that went against every experience others had.

“Different?” Malcolm parroted, lines furrowing on his brow. “What makes you say that?”

“Well–”

Clara held off on the thought as their server returned, wine and water in hand.

“Here we are,” she stated jovially, placing their drinks down. “What may I get you this evening?”

“I’ll have the fettuccine alfredo with grilled chicken,” Clara ordered simply, turning her menu in, “thank you.”

“And I’ll have the lasagna al forno.”

“Both excellent choices!” She practically sang as she walked away.

“I didn’t take you for a lasagna person, Malcolm.”

“Well, you haven’t had their lasagna before,” he returned drily, not forgetting their previous conversation. “Or is this another way that I’m different?”

“I didn’t mean it in a negative way,” she quickly defended, swirling the wine in her glass.

“No?”

“No, stop it. I just mean that, when I first came in with the department Nicola sort of warned me that you were a bit distant towards everyone,” Clara explained, looking between her glass and Malcolm’s unreadable expression, “and that some have tried to get to know you but you never let them.”

“And I invited you to coffee,” Malcolm sighed. He felt inappropriately daft.    

“Yes,” Clara breathed, watching him drink slowly.

“Did you ever chance to think that it isn’t  _you_ who I act differently towards?” Clara stopped her glass midway to her lips, her eyes widening at the brief hesitance in his words. They made uninterrupted eye contact at this point, and Malcolm cocked his head as he regarded her.

“Why, then?” 

“Force of habit,” he shrugged.

“What habit?”

“When I worked for the government I found there was less resistance in influencing policy when I was not invested in the people around me.”

“But you worked in politics for years, Malcolm, how could you not get close to anyone?”

“Have you any idea how absolutely fucking vile most of the people in our government are?” Malcolm leaned forward sharply, lowering his voice as his tone grew harder. “There were a few people I was fond of, sure, but  _you_ show any weakness and the wolves get to  _them_ first.

“Besides,” he eased the tension in his shoulders, “after the first few times I had to force resignations on ministers I was friendly with, I noted that firing someone for the good of the party was easier when you didn’t know they had young kids to look after, or that it would put unwelcome stress on a marriage they were slowly rebuilding.”

“I understand,” Clara spoke evenly, not backing down. At the mention of marriage she sought out his left hand, her eyes taking in the gold band that glinted in the candlelight emanating from the center of the table. She didn’t want to create tension at such a lovely dinner, but she came armed with questions, and she would be damned if she didn’t at least try for answers. “What of your marriage, Malcolm?”  

“I didn’t realize your questions were going to be quite like this, Clara, I don’t know that I would have agreed to hearing them.”

“You could say, ‘enough,’” she offered.

“I was married for six years, to a wonderful woman named Jennifer. We met when I was in art school.”

“Where did you go?”

“Glasgow School of Art. She was working in film mediums, and I in painting.

“We got on, and I fancied her, so I took her to dinner and films, and she grew to fancy me, too,” he continued, looking at some spot above her. “We dated for a few years before we married, and the following year I become acutely invested in politics.”

“You weren’t interested before?”

“Not keenly, no.”

“What changed?”

“There was a policy in place that didn’t offer the proper protections for people in violent domestic situations,” he revealed calmly, “and when that policy became relevant to me I decided an involvement in politics could offer more than any art I was doing.”

Clara swallowed the wine that passed through her lips slowly, grimacing at the images which came to mind as he spoke.

“You were...”

“No, not me,” he shook his head. “My mum.”

At that moment, their waitress returned with a carafe of water, just to check in on them and let them know that their entrees were on their way. The reprieve was welcomed by both of them, though each knew that the conversation would certainly continue. Clara was too interested and Malcolm too willing for it to end where it was.

“Jenn was supportive of my decision, though she was unsure of how I would get my hand in. I had no experience, no connections. But I worked myself in. I was first an assistant, absorbing everything I could, reading everything within reach. Soon I began to speak up, I was moved into a cubicle, and I was noticed locally. But I didn’t stop there.

“I didn’t have the education they wanted for running an office but I had the wit and mind to see to it that what needed to be said was said, what needed to be focused on was in the papers. The more in the loop I was the more manipulative I became, the better I was at my job. Jenn didn’t mind so long as I didn’t bring it home with me.

“I’m sure you can figure out how that went,” he downed the rest of his wine and passed a hand against his eyes, rubbing at the age that was marked on his skin. Clara was enlightened and overwhelmed with his honesty, but she was pleased to have been given access to it.

“Do you have any children?” she asked without seeming too interested, though she very much so wanted to know.  

“I’d like to talk about something else now, Clara,” he practically pleaded, not meeting her eyes. “I wasn’t always shouty and fuckin’ off the wall with everyone I met, but I let my politics _become_ me, and it’s been so long since I’ve had an honest anything, with anyone, and for reasons unknown I saw you and thought I could be that man again.

“I’m not different towards you,” he said with finality, giving her a weak yet supportive smile, “I am simply myself.”

Clara couldn’t find the proper words to say, and even if she could, she didn’t think it would be appropriate to voice them. She had more questions than when they sat down, but this was enough. All of this. The company, the conversation, the expressiveness of his eyes and sincerity when he spoke to her. She reached across the table and smoothed one of her hands atop both of his, his fingers ceasing their ministrations on the gold band she was furiously curious about. 

“Thank you, Malcolm.”

Eyebrows raised.

“What for?”

“Your honesty,” she answered with no pretense.

Malcolm flashed a lopsided grin and turned over his palm, enclosing her much smaller hand in his grasp. He wanted to kiss her then and there, the way she was looking at him as if he were something to marvel at; he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t expect it. He wanted her to see him as he once was, not as he came to be. Of course, he couldn’t make the wear and tear of countless years disappear without a trace, but he could find himself in the depth of her eyes and the confessions she didn’t have to coax out of him. His years in politics left him a shell of his former self, but he was gradually collecting the pieces of what once was a man with unbridled passions, and pasting them in place with steadying fingers.   

“Your fettuccine and grilled chicken,” the waitress returned, a cheeky smile on her face when she saw them holding hands, “and your lasagna. Would you like some more wine, sir?”

“No, thank you. Clara?”

“No, I’m fine. Everything smells delicious,” Clara inhaled deeply, a pleased sigh passing her lips.

“Enjoy your meal!”

There was no chance that they wouldn’t. From that moment on, Malcolm focused the conversation on Clara as they relished in their dinner and the pleasant atmosphere of the restaurant. He listened with complete fascination at even the most irrelevant of details in every anecdote she told, memorizing the way she gestured with her hands or screwed her face up in thought. They leaned closer across the table, their body language telling of their comfort with one another, the foot Malcolm knowingly brushed along her Achilles and Clara's warm blush revealing of something entirely different.  

“An egg. The moon’s an egg,” Malcolm laughed deeply along with Clara, who had tears in her eyes.

“Yes, and the government is hiding that from everyone,” she wheezed, holding her sides.

“Your father sounds like a fascinating man,” Malcolm remarked, laughter still in his voice. He shook his head and sipped from his water, taking a second to collect himself from their mirth. “And what does your mother do?”

Few things could have stopped Clara’s laughter quicker, the topic unfortunately sobering. She tried not to let it show, but Malcolm was far more perceptive than those she customarily dodged the pity with.

“She passed away nine years ago,” she revealed after a steady breath, holding Malcolm’s softening blue eyes.  

“I’m sorry, Clara, I didn-”

“She would have liked you, I think,” Clara cut him off, “though I’m sure my father would have a few choice words about your involvement in politics.”

“Is that so?” He humored her turn in the conversation, withholding any reaction to the realization that they were oddly alike in that respect. It was an unfortunate parallel, but the first of many more to be drawn in angry lines.   

Clara was unsure if his remark was in regards to her mother or father, but she found comfort in the warm clasp of his hand atop of hers. “Yes.”  

After the bill was paid, the waitress handsomely tipped, and the drive to Sherwood Street completed, Clara threaded her fingers in Malcolm’s as they slowly drew closer to number 68.

"Hope you aren't humoring me when you say you enjoyed dinner, Clara," Malcolm teased as they stopped outside of her door, "I can always order fuckin' Tai food if that'd make you happier."

"Will you stop mocking me for liking Tai food," Clara scolded with a grin, turning on him in theatrical aggravation. 

"Yes, ma'am," he flinched when she raised a hand as if to hit him, though the smile never left either of their eyes.   

“Really, though," she began, stepping closer. "Thank you for tonight, Malcolm.”

Clara laid her hands against his chest and rose on her toes, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth, lingering suggestively as he bent slightly to accommodate their height difference. Malcolm regarded her with heavier eyes, his mind at war with itself as she withdrew her soft mouth from his, painfully slowly. Clara nearly exhaled in silent defeat at his immobilization, when she felt his hands cup her cheeks, her breath hitching as he captured her lips with his.

Heat spread through their veins, the touch of their flesh breathing life into an inferno which was once only a small fire. Clara was the first to move her lips against his, their rhythm slow and unsure, but gradually gaining confidence as their breath grew uneven. Neither particularly cared that they were still on her porch, bathed in the glow of overhead streetlights, their wandering hands enough to elicit contented sighs from the other. A small whimper vibrated in Clara's throat at the feel of his palms on her lower back, the kneading of his fingers, the grazing of his teeth on her lower lip, and she drew closer to him, pressing her smaller frame to his.

This was enough to flag Malcolm's conscientiousness, and he stepped back with little more than a sound of surprise. They both eyed one another, panting wonderfully and marveling at the numbed throbbing of their lips. There were so many reasons to turn back now, say goodnight and leave with the pleasant taste of what could possibly be; and so many reasons to follow where she led.

"We should probably-"

"Yeah, I suppose you're right-"

"It was a lovely evening, after all-"

"It certainly was-"

"Maybe if we-"

"If we?"

The air was tense between them, and Malcolm wondered if Clara was holding her breath, too.       

“Why don’t you come in for a drink, Malcolm?”   

Clara held out her hand, and there were so many reasons to follow her lead. 


	9. September 16th and 17th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change of this story.

What was he doing here, holding her hand, allowing her to practically drag him through the threshold of her front door? This was dangerous territory that he had no business traveling in. She was coming up on her 28th birthday, and he was, well, not. A month from being twice her age, and here she was goading him on with her round eyes and smooth tongue.

“Cla-”

“Wine, or beer?” Clara asked, releasing his hand as she ushered him further inside.

“Depends on which is less shit,” he responded with a smirk, winking. “Don’t look so offended, sweetheart, I’m fuckin’ old, I need to mind what I’m putting into my body.”

“You aren’t _that_ old.”

“Wrong fuckin’ response, _again_. I thought we had this talk over coffee.”

“Ah, that’s right, forgive me,” Clara sounded sincere, leading him to the small kitchen of her apartment.

“You’re forgi-”

Clara cut him off with an abrupt clearing of her throat.

“ _Old_? Come on Malcolm, you don’t look a day over twenty. You’re practically a fetus,” Clara mocked theatrically, eyes wide and expectant as she looked at Malcolm, slack jawed and gawking.

“Have I ever told you how much I dislike you?” He growled humorously, distracting himself with the fish tank on her counter.

“I wouldn’t believe you if you did.”

Malcolm looked at her then, his eyes a pale greenish shade in the colored reflection of the tank. Clara took note of how the shades changed, that new detail serving as a future justification for looking at him a little longer. Her mouth was pursed in an appreciative smirk, and he wanted to kiss it off her face.       

“You know you’re practically fucking flirting with a mountain range, yeah?” He sighed, a touch of amusement softening the serious implications in his words. “There are plenty of young, sprightly, athletic academics who would give their left testicle to share a beer with you.”      

“I have never had the slightest interest in pretty young men, Malcolm,” she shook her head, grabbing two beers from the fridge. “And for the record, if there was anybody who could flirt with a mountain range, she's probably standing in front of you right now.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, and if you mention your age again, I’ll detach something from you,” she barked, taking a serious tone. “We are both adults here, Malcolm, and we are both quite obviously interested in one another, and if you think age means anything to me, you are mistaken.”

“Nothing is more fleeting than the years of a man’s life,” Malcolm stated a bit dejectedly, taking a long drink from his beer.

“But there is time enough yet for those who know how to use it,” Clara finished the quote quietly, her voice forceful despite how soft she spoke.  

“Aye, there’s always that,” he replied thoughtfully. “Alright I’m inside, we’ve got drinks, now...”

“A movie,” Clara grinned as his brow crinkled, “and I’m picking.”

 “Fine, but if the credits come up and I see Hugh Grant’s name I’m fucking out of here, right?”

“Yes!” Clara exclaimed, grabbing his hand and pulling him into her living room.

-

Six beers between them, three fourths of a film, and a tin of biscuits later, Clara was curled up against Malcolm’s side, his left arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder. They had started the film with three feet between them, but after Clara had gotten up for their third round, she promptly sat right up against him. He didn’t mind.  

 They were watching _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ , but at this point in the evening they had turned the volume down and were providing their own versions of the dialogue. It was Clara’s idea after Malcolm pointedly mocked Martin Freeman’s delivery of a few lines.

“I think you could have voiced Marvin,” Clara laughed at his Rickman impression, which was absolutely awful.

“Aye, ya might be right,” Malcolm agreed, squeezing her shoulder. “And tah think ah wasted s’much time in politics. I could’ve ben a fuckin’ star.”

She couldn’t help the fit of hysterics, which only escalated at the confused look he was giving her.

“What’re yah laughin’ at like tha?”

“You sound about eighty percent more Scottish when you’ve had a few, Malcolm,” she teased, her grip on the lapels of his dinner jacket tightening as tears streaked down her cheeks. “It took me a bit to actually understand what you were saying.”

“S’rry,” he mumbled, swirling around the contents of his unfinished third beer. He was well aware that that occurred, as his sister Anne was always quick to point it out. It wasn’t necessarily the alcohol that brought it on; it was moreover just being comfortable. 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s...well, you know,” Clara felt her cheeks growing hot, the three beers she had not enough for her to be as forward as she could have been. In all honesty, she thought the depth in his tone and the thickness of his lilt was hot. That was really the only word she could think of. Perhaps attractive was a better adjective, but either covered the extent of what she was feeling.

When she glanced up at him he was already watching her, a new alertness in his gaze, and that was when the swearing accelerated in her head. If the thrill of their kiss on her porch was any indication, the look in his eyes was another thing entirely.  

“What do I know?” Malcolm drew the words out, unrelenting. He knew. He was well aware.

“Attractive, Malcolm, it’s attractive,” she accepted the unspoken challenge, satisfied with the way he swallowed as he watched her, the smolder of her gaze hopefully as effective as she wanted. _God, was that seductive? Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck_...  

Malcolm smirked a bit, shifting on the couch so that he was facing her. If looks could kill Clara would have had to call an ambulance at this point, his heart was off to the races and for the first time in a while, that didn’t concern him. _Christ, she has no idea_ , he groaned inwardly, the hand on his lapel slowly smoothing upwards. He leaned forward until his lips were by her ear, his breath warm on her skin, goose-bumps lining her arms as Clara bit down on the inside of her cheek.

“How attractive?” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of her ear.

“Malcolm,” she breathed his name quickly, an edge to her tone that spoke warning, wondering if he was quite aware of what he was doing.

“Ach, nu if I ‘ad known you’t be turn’t on wit a Glaswegian brogue earlier...” He was aware. His lips were grazing along her neck, and she tilted her head to expose more of her skin. He never did manage to finish his sentence, as Clara pushed against his chest before pulling him in for a bruising kiss.

Her hands were curling through his hair as he pressed forward until she was on her back, propping himself above her as their panting breaths interrupted their lips’ caresses. Their kisses were open mouthed and heavy, and Malcolm groaned throatily as Clara traced his bottom lip with her tongue.

Clara was working deftly at his black tie, gasping when Malcolm bit and sucked on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Her living room was becoming desperately warm, their limbs tangling as they sought more contact. Clara dropped his tie to the floor, quickly pushing his dinner jacket from his shoulders as he shrugged from the garment.

It was then that they stopped and looked over one another, their chests rising and falling in rapid succession. Malcolm’s gaze was black and searing, his swath of white hair sufficiently mussed and askew, his mouth parted as he drew in uneven breaths. Clara wondered if she would ever see a more worshiping expression on another’s face. Her brunette locks were untangled from her bun, her pupils swallowing the brown hues of her irises. Both of them were flushed and aroused, and Malcolm became deafeningly aware of the pressure of Clara’s thigh along his erection.

Neither of them expected to be caught in this sobering moment, their awareness of their surroundings rising sharply as they appraised one another. Malcolm felt a rush of shame in the way he behaved, and he withdrew with hushed apologies and self inflicted admonishments.

“Ah, Christ,” he groaned from behind his hands, retreating until his spine pressed into the furthest armrest of the couch.

“Malcolm,” Clara sat up, concern drawing deep lines on her forehead. “Look at me, Malcolm, what’s wrong?”

“We’ve only just had proper dinner, and I’m fuckin’ pinning you to your couch,” he growled, gesturing with disgust.

Clara crossed her legs beneath her and folded her hands in her lap, demanding his attention with a long sigh.

“I’m not a young man, Clara, and I know you said not to bring it up,” he added quickly, seeing the agitation on her face, “but I fuckin’ have to. I’m twice your age, lass, and we’ve only known each other two days past a month. What does that look like, lookin’ in?”

He was met with silence, but softer eyes, and he felt like he had to keep going. Telling her the ways that this was wrong, the scandal of it all, the impropriety of him to have made any moves to begin with.

“I didn’t take you for an insecure man, Malcolm,” Clara cut him off midway between his declaration of _apparent perverseness_ ; quiet, but stern. “That’s all right and fine, other people may scoff and have opinions and feelings about, _this_.” She gestured between them both, a touch vulgar. “Why should we give a damn about that?”

“We shouldn’t,” he admitted, shrugging. “But I do, and that’s not for my sake.”

“I can take care of myself, Malcolm.”

“I never fuckin’ said you couldn’t, Clara, but I don’t come with free hands and shiny packaging,” he was harsher than he wanted to be, but there was so much that she didn’t know, that she shouldn’t have to deal with in a relationship. He wasn’t worried for himself. “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t you see that? I don’t wa-”            

Clara silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. He didn’t realize she had closed the distance between them until it was too late, but once again he did not protest at the contact, even when she straddled his hips.

“Please, stop thinking so much,” she breathed into his ear, hands smoothing over his chest.

Malcolm tentatively traced his hands over her hips, her midnight blue dress riding up over her thighs. He was overwhelmed with the feel of her, the lingering kisses she pressed to his neck, the way her chest brushed his when she arched against him.

While Clara was sure of herself, she was thoughtful to the way Malcolm reacted to her touch, cautious to avoid pushing beyond his comfort. He was hesitant at first, but grew bolder with each kiss, each sigh which passed her lips, every certain touch of her hands.

Malcolm shared Clara’s moan when she rolled her hips against him. He slid a hand beneath her dress, smoothing the pads of his fingers along her inner thigh as he caught her gaze.

“Yes, Malcolm,” she answered his questioning look, kissing him fervently when she felt him brush along the lace of her undergarments.      

Clara gasped when he caressed his fingers slowly along her core, any coherent thought long since disregarded. She felt a jolt of heat coursing through her, the involuntary movement of her hips encouraging greater pressure, longer strokes, faster touches. He complied silently, holding his breath, watching her with adoring eyes.

“Malc- _ah_ , _fuck_ ,” their foreheads met as Clara exhaled shakily, his free hand tightly gripping her waist as he rapidly stroked her. They both knew she was close; his fingers curled as he felt the sensitive flesh around them tightening. “ _Malcolm!_ ”

Clara cried out and a low, guttural sound rumbled through Malcolm’s chest. Her legs were trembling violently, soft sounds of pleasure and heavy breaths the melody to the cadence of their hearts. Malcolm kissed her slowly, his tongue mapping out the rise and fall of her swollen lips as she reciprocated hazily, still riding the throws of her orgasm.

A minute passed and they remained frozen in time, his hand lingering beneath her dress, her hands trailing their way down his chest when they parted lips. Clara could see herself in his eyes, the black pools of his pupils a calm vortex, swallowing her whole. She left one hand against his chest, the other stroking his erection through the tight fabric of his trousers.

Malcolm clenched his jaw and thrust up against her palm, his hot gaze never leaving hers. Clara felt his heart rate accelerate, but she was certain that it was the beat of her heart which was deafening in her ears. He was unrelentingly watching her, rolling his hips as she grasped him tighter, the _damned fucker_ unsparingly seductive in the control he was exhibiting.     

“Where is your bedroom?” Malcolm forced the words out through his teeth, the previous calm of his features giving way to an alluring storm of lust.

Clara led him from the couch silently, her fingers laced with his, their bodies pressed tightly together as Malcolm closed Clara’s bedroom door behind them.

-

Clara woke the following morning with the scent of aftershave lingering in the sheets she had wrapped tightly around her. She stretched lazily, rolling onto her back, where she was met with the vast emptiness of the other side of her bed.

Pillows tumbled to the floor as she launched herself upright, her eyes adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the windows. Alone. She was alone. The dress she recalled Malcolm discarding on the floor was neatly folded on her vanity, the clothing she pulled from his body now gone from their previous resting place.

Clara lept from bed and quickly dressed in her robe and slippers. A glance to the alarm clock on her nightstand told her it was 7:30, and that Malcolm had left her a note, folded and decorated with a cartoon of her presumably drooling on herself in sleep.

“Fucker,” she exhaled endearingly, opening the paper.

_Clara,_

_Didn’t want to disturb you before you needed to be up. Coffee is ready for you when you wake._

_MdT._

She shuffled to the bathroom in the hall, freshening up and smiling cheekily at herself as memories of last night washed over her. As Clara made her way towards her kitchen, she was aware of the distinctive sizzling and popping sound emanating along the walls. She quickened her pace, her brows furrowed in curiosity.

“Morning.”

Clara threw herself against the wall with a yelp, her eyes bulging as she took in the sudden sight of Malcolm standing proudly in her kitchen, tending to a pan of bacon.

“Christ, Malcolm, you almost gave me a heart attack,” she shouted, though she was unable to keep the relief and joy out of her voice.

He paused a moment and looked at her long, and hard, before shrugging, a smile creeping onto his face. “I don’t think so.”

Clara merely shook her head.

“What have you got there?”

“What does it look like I’ve got here? Or perhaps you were somehow blinded between last night and now?”

“I’m glad you’re still here,” she admitted, ignoring him as she rose on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Eggs and toast, too? You’re spoiling me, Malcolm.”

“With breakfast?” he scoffed, turning the burner off before dabbing the freshly plated bacon with a paper towel. “I’d be spoiling you if I brought it to you in bed. And while we’re on the subject, I thought I was going to drown this morning with you fuckin’ dribblin’ like a wee babe.”

“Shut up,” she punched his arm. _Hard_.

“Oi, you little,” he growled, murmuring colorful declarations of pain beneath his breath as he put her breakfast on the table. “Try not to choke on it.”

Clara laughed ridiculously at his scowl, but she was pleased to see the corner of his lips upturn as he looked away from her.

“Are you joining me?” she asked, sitting at her table as he presented her with a mug of coffee. Spoon of sugar and a dash of cream.

“I’ve already eaten,” he informed her, pocketing his car keys. “I have a lecture in an hour and a half, and I think it would be best if I showered and changed before then.”

“You could shower here,” she offered between a bite of toast and scrambled eggs.

“I have a change of clothes in my office, and I’ll shower at the Aquatic Fitness Center.” He shrugged into his dinner jacket, wrapping his tie loosely around his neck. “Easier that way.”

“Hold on...don’t we lecture at the same time on Wednesdays?”

“Yes.”

“Give me thirty minutes and I’ll go with you.”

“You can shower and dress in thirty minutes?”

“You underestimate me,” she winked, darting her tongue out to lick a drip of coffee from the lip of her mug.

“How can I? I don’t even know where to begin with you.”

Warmth spread through Clara’s chest, his tone matching the wondrous look he was giving her. There was so much left unsaid that they communicated through long glances and subtle movements of their lips, but there was nothing to be said about the way she made him feel. There were no words in existence which could surmise the onslaught of what he felt for her. One month and three days. They met each other one month and three days ago.

“Take your time,” Malcolm continued after a long moment, his slender hands curled around a travel mug he borrowed from her cabinets, “and I’ll see you at lunch.”

“I’m picking the place this time,” Clara stated, matter of fact, munching on a piece of bacon.

“Yes boss,” Malcolm pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek, mussing her hair before making his grand exit, brilliantly whistling _Another Brick in the Wall_ as the latch of the front door clicked behind him.

Clara ate in thoughtful silence, dwelling on a moment from the previous night.

 _Malcolm had rolled over onto his side, drawing her back flush against his chest as their breathing evened, his arm draped over her waist, his breath faint on her shoulder. Clara felt herself drifting, pleasant exhaustion overcoming every fiber of her being. She was on the cusp of sleep when she heard Malcolm whisper breathlessly to the air._                 

_“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet. But I, being poor, have only my dreams,” he ghosted his lips upon her shoulder, the breath of his words warm on her skin. “I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1\. This is my first time writing scenes of an intimate nature - have mercy on me.  
> 2\. Foreshadowing.  
> 3\. I was annoyed with myself with how many times I brought the chapter back to their age difference, but I genuinely believe that Malcolm would be concerned with this for Clara's sake.  
> 4\. There is a lot to learn about Malcolm before Clara understands why he dwells on the fact that he doesn't "come with free hands and shiny packaging." It will make sense, I promise.  
> 5\. FORESHADOWING.  
> 6\. The poem Malcolm recites is William Butler Yeats', "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven."  
> 7\. While I know that this is an AU, please let me know if there are any glaring characterizations throughout the story. I take criticism well and just want to put out something people enjoy reading without cringing too much.  
> 8\. Thank you for reading along - its a fun ride to write, I hope its just as fun to read.


	10. September 30th 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has two parts. Apologies for the horrendously long delay - I've been having a bit of an issue with how to present these two chapters, as they have some rather important details. This chapter does not have any warnings other than a very, very brief mention of abuse and alcoholism.

_CD3500,_

_8:05 a.m._

_Class has been canceled this morning. If you have questions regarding the reading, email them to me by the end of the day. My office hours are canceled for the afternoon. I will be in tomorrow at my usual time for any pressing matters that cannot be resolved via email._

_Until Thursday,_

_MdT_

_P.s. If you have not finished Glengarry Glen Ross, sort that out._

Malcolm rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead before pressing send. He strongly disliked canceling lecture, but the day was turning out to be full of unexpected surprises and demands.

The waiting room was pervasive with the smell of cleaning fluids, and the symphony of coughs and nose blowing that he could have done without. He was not ill as they were, and being around the sick was annoying. He drummed his fingers along his keypad, a half constructed text message staring back at him on the screen.

 **[From** : Clara] Hey Malcolm, just got your email – everything alright?

[ _ **To**_ : Clara] Morning, Clara. Everything is fine.

[ **From** : Clara] Bit random for you to cancel lecture an hour before it starts?

Malcolm sighed.

[ _ **To**_ : Clara] It’s nothing.

[ **From** : Clara] I wonder why I don’t believe that. 

[ ** _To_** _:_ Clara] Overactive imagination, I would guess. 

[ **From** : Clara] I’m sure your students are thrilled they don’t have to see you.

"That’s just fuckin’ wrong," he mumbled quietly, shaking his head with a wicked grin. 

[ ** _To_** _:_ Clara]  

…………………./´¯/)   
………………..,/¯../   
………… ……./…./   
…………./´¯/’…’/´¯¯`·¸   
………./’/…/…./…./¨¯\   
……..(‘(…´´…. ¯~/’…’)   
……….………….’…../ /  
……….”….…....…… _.·´   
………….………...….(   
…………...………...…\

He was smirking as he sent the message, happy to have kept the text saved from the first time he received it from Jamie. He was contentedly looking around the room when he remembered she couldn’t see his expression, and he started to panic when her response didn’t come in as fast as it usually did. He was in the middle of an apology text when -

[ **From:** Clara]

…………./´¯/)……........….. (\¯`\   
…………/….//…….......…. ….\\...\   
………../….//……….......... ….\\...\   
…../´¯/…./´¯.……...…./¯ `.…\¯`\   
.././…/…./…./.|_…...…_| ..….…....\   
(.(….(….(…./.)..)........(..(. .…)….)….).)   
..……………\/…/….. .\/……………./   
...……………. /……....………………/   
…..………….(………... ..)…………../   
…….………….…….. ..../…………./

He laughed, genuinely smiling for the first time that morning. He glanced around at the other patrons of the doctor’s office before catching the eye of a woman sitting across the room, and from the look she gave him he was certain his smile was on the manic, serial killer side as opposed to the calm grin he did his best to use when in public.

[ _ **To**_ : Clara] You win.

[ ** _To_** : Clara] For now…

 “Mr. Tucker.”

Malcolm looked up at the familiar, Irish inflection, and Doctor Jackman watched him as he pocketed his phone and strode across the waiting room.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in my office without your phone in hand, Malcolm,” Jackman commented in jest, opening the door to Exam Room 4.

“Yeah, well, try saying that with my cock down your throat,” he replied, crossing the room and sitting on the examination table as the doctor flipped through his file. 

"I don't think that would be too difficult," Jackman responded smoothly, doing his best not to crack a smile.

"Why, because you're experienced?" 

"No," Tom replied, smiling despite himself, "because that would entail you getting it up."   

"Alright, alright," Malcolm nodded his approval, fondly remembering the first time Tom experienced his ‘banter,’ "I've got more to do than fuck around here today."   

 “Fair enough. Says you’re here for a routine checkup?”

“You should know, you scheduled me for it.”

“With good reason.”

“I’ve been fine since then, Tom.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Jackman replied, rolling towards Malcolm, sphygmomanometer and stethoscope in hand.

\--

A light rain was picking up as Malcolm left the doctor’s office intent on catching Clara’s noon lecture. It was nearing 9:30 now, and with an hour drive from London to Reading, he was hoping to use his spare hour to buy Eddie a gift for his sixth birthday.

He checked his phone, having received four texts from Clara, a call and voicemail from both Anne _and_ his mother, and three emails from students with varying concerns about nothing relevant to the course.

_8:15_

[ **From** : Clara] I always win, Malcolm. And I’m not afraid of your ellipsis.

[ **From** : Clara] ...

 [ **From** : Clara] See? I can do it, too.

_9:02_

[ **From** : Clara] Will I see you today?

_9:33_

[ **To** : Clara] If everything works out, yes. On the road now – I’ll see you in class.   

[ **First Voice Message** ]  Malcolm, it’s your mum. I wish you’d learn to answer your phone. Last I heard you still had your hands and hearing. Try and call me before I die. Bye now.

“Cheeky woman,” he grinned. He loved his mother with protective fervidity, and she meant more to him than he was capable of admitting. Ever since he was old enough to understand the horror of his father’s plight with alcohol, Malcolm made himself the barrier between his violence and his mum, which earned him wrath beyond the capacity of a sober man. He never mentioned it, but there were times when he caught himself staring at the scar above his brow in restroom mirrors.

[ **Second Voice Message** ] Malc, if you don’t call mum before she sees you this afternoon, and she phones me one more time to complain about it, I will personally see to it that you are in a coma.

[ **To** : Anne] On my way toward Reading. I’ll call her around 11.

[ **From** : Anne] You better.

The drive was pleasantly void of significant traffic, though the volume of rain shifted from a drizzle to a monsoon. Or so Malcolm deemed it when he had to squint to see beyond thirty feet. The shops were swarming with soaked customers who had little else to do at eleven o’clock on a rainy morning, but he knew precisely what to get Eddie and where to find it. As he made his way past a howling baby and his noticeably sleep deprived father, Malcolm phoned his mother, looking for a quieter corner of the store to receive his bollocking.

Which, surprisingly, would have to wait for that evening.

“Aye, Ma, it’s Malc,” he breathed into the receiver, ashamed to be relieved that she didn’t answer. “I’m going to be in class from noon to one fifteen, and then I’ll be right over to Anne’s. Try not to drop off before I get there, yeah? I know how concerned you are that we won’t speak before you do. Tah.”

When he located the arts aisle he was pleased with the youth selection. He browsed with critical eyes until he found something that would be acceptable for all involved parties. He paid and wrapped the gift as quickly as he could. He wanted to catch Clara before students arrived to her class since he knew he wouldn’t have much time to linger around after.

\--

“Clara. Clara!” Malcolm was breathless and sporting rain slicked hair when he intercepted Clara outside of her class, and he took a moment of relatively awkward silence to compose himself.

“Someone chasing you?” Clara asked, smiling when he kissed both of her cheeks in greeting. She loved when he did that, and loved that it came customary with the cup of coffee he presented her every morning.

“Possibly my mum,” he joked, rubbing his hand through his hair to shake some of the water from it. “She wont fuckin’ leave me alone.”

“You look ridiculous,” Clara reached up and ran her fingers through his soaked locks, which were all standing at odd ends after his careless ruffling. “A bit better, though you look like you could be in a 1940’s news agency or something, I dunno. Now what’s this about your mum?”

“Inside,” he flicked the door open with a quick jerk of his wrist, leading her into the room.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Malcolm?” Clara questioned with nagging suspicion. There was something off about his manner, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. “No class, no office hours, and now you’re showing up early to my class, looking like you’ve been on a high speed chase.”

“I’m just busier than a two twatted hooker, Clara, nothing sinister.”

“I don’t know that I will ever get used to your mastery of language.”

“Good. I’ve got years of material you’ve never heard, so expect anything,” Malcolm took a seat on the desk at the front of the room, which gave Clara a bit more height to compare to his own. She was still much shorter than he, but it was at least reasonable for both of their necks. “I came early to your class because I can’t stay long after, and I wanted to ask you something.”

His words made Clara feel uneasy, even if he didn’t seem to be. She inhaled slowly, deliberately, the scent of his cologne mixing with the aroma of wet wool and dirt. A quick glance over his coat and shoes explained the odd combination.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Mainly you,” he replied with a wink before his expression settled on something more serious. “Which is both invigorating and fucking killing me.” 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that,” Clara crossed her arms, brows furrowed.

“Don’t say anything. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished, and then the floor is yours,” he mimicked her posture, though he looked much more imposing than she. Folding his arms the way he did made him look closed off, and Clara wondered if that was what he wanted.

Everything had been perfectly fine between them; they barely took notice of anything other than each other over the past two weeks since their dinner. While neither would openly admit it, the carnal pleasure of that evening created a more relaxed atmosphere between the two of them. Their previous interactions were not riddled with heavy sexual tension – though they acknowledged a reserved quality to their manner based on their attractions – but crossing the boundary of professionalism made way for simpler joys. They were no longer hesitant in expressing affection, or uncertain when sharing personal space. Their increased ease in each other’s presence gave off the impression that they had known each other all of their lives. Students stared a little longer than they previously did, and even Nicola was wide eyed upon crossing them in the hall, huddled close and speaking in low whispers. They looked like they were together, despite never agreeing on a definition of what they were.  

“I was thinking about you and me,” Malcolm continued, his hands in his lap occupied with one another, his fingers once again twisting the wedding band he refused to take off, “and how I feel like I’ve been fucking breathing easier since we started talking proper. And I’m not saying this to be that twat who sets things up nicely before everything falls to shit, because I haven’t wanted anything to work as much as I want _us_ to, in a long, long time.” His voice dropped into a deep, intimate tone, and he watched her with earnest expectation. “I want to know what this, what we have going on between us, means to you, Clara.”

She felt a pang of guilt at his expression, the pained and desperate gleam behind his eyes, the anticipation etched in the slight twitch of his grimacing lips. She realized he was ready for disappointment. He was prepared for it, and this was not the first time she saw this expression. Perhaps it was years of disappointment that carved that particular face into his muscle memory.

“Well, Malcolm,” Clara began slowly, collecting the words that felt right and assembling them in the proper order, “you mean so many things to me. You’ve become this unexpected, pleasant priority, and I find myself sleeping and waking in anticipation of seeing you. I don’t really know how to put it into words, I ju-” 

Malcolm silenced her with a long, slow kiss, his hands warm around her cheeks. Clara melted into him as he stepped closer, welcoming him into an embrace...until she felt the damp wool of his jacket sleeves under her hands.

“Malcolm, I have a class to teach, and it will be very uncomfortable to do so wet,” Clara fired quickly to remedy the puzzled expression he gave as she shoved him back.

“Ah,” he grinned devilishly, giving her a sultry wink.

“I meant your jacket,” she rolled her eyes.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart.”

“What about you, Malcolm?” Clara asked, returning their attention to the conversation he initiated. “What does this mean to you?”

“Everything.”

There was no hesitation, no extra thought to go into his response. He already thought about it enough. He dwelled on it in sleepless nights and dazed afternoons. He couldn’t change the way he felt. He was drawn to her personality, her passions and interests in life, the fresh perspective she brought to the otherwise dreary view of his world. He was captivated by the way she made him feel relevant again, the way she made room in her world for an unconventional, and less than pleasant man. He was different than he once was, more like the man he wished he would have been sooner in his life, and it took seeing himself through her eyes to recognize that.

 “Then what are you worried about?” Clara regarded him with warm eyes, sliding off of the desk as she heard voices approaching.

“I want you to come with me this afternoon,” Malcolm stepped back as students filed in, running a hand through his hair. “It’s Eddie’s birthday, and Anne is having a small family party for him. My mum will be there.”

“This conversation was about you bringing me round to meet your family?” she asked with wide eyes. Leave it to Malcolm to preface a family meeting by questioning her on her feelings for their relationship. 

“More than that,” he shrugged, returning the wave of a young lady who was also in his class, “but I suppose that was part of it.”

Clara raised an eyebrow.

“Look, my mum would be thrilled to meet you, Clara,” he continued, shifting on his feet, “in fact, I think she’d fuckin’ like you better than she likes me.”

“Ask me after lecture.”

“Why?”

“Because I might say yes.”


	11. Later, September 30th 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: References to abuse/alcoholism. Nothing serious, just mutterings.  
> I've also changed the name of Malcolm's ex-wife. Jennifer = ex-wife.

 “And you said Anne was okay with me coming?” Clara was gripping his arm tightly as they walked through the front garden to Anne’s quaint home. The rain had let up on their drive over, and the sun peeked through the smattering of clouds as they trailed across the sky.

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“She is okay with you coming, Clara, why wouldn’t I ask permission to bring a friend to her son’s birthday party?”

Clara stopped in her tracks, creasing her brow. _A friend_. Before, she was thrilled to have the title tacked onto her. Now, she was slightly disappointed with it.

“Well, does she know that this _friend_ of yours is a bit more _involved_ than _friends_ usually are?” She muttered coldly.

Malcolm’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the handle to the front door, his jaw set tight and his expression looking exasperated and cross.

“Are you cross with me?”

“No, I’m not cross with you.”

“You look like you’re fuckin’ cross with me.”

“ _Malcolm_.”

“Look, I’m not goin’ in there until you tell me wh-oi!”

 The door flew open without warning, and Malcolm staggered forward with the force of the pull. Clara watched in surprise as a short, grey haired and spectacled woman wrapped her thin arms around him, drawing him in to a tight and rather uncomfortable looking embrace.

“Oh Malc, I’m so pleased to see you, you wee bastard of mine,” she gushed, pinching and squishing his cheeks when he tried to withdraw. “I got your message. Of course you managed to return my call when I had my hands busy.”

“Ah, well, you know it is all a part of my master plan to avoid you,” he growled, his speech slightly inhibited by her grasp on his face. “Mum, this is Clara, Clara, this is my mum, Denise Tucker.”

Denise turned with an astonished expression as she finally set her eyes on Clara, who was currently being appraised under the woman’s gaze. The whole encounter reminded her of when she first met Anne, who also shamelessly looked her over with a similar pair of wise and shining eyes.

“Oh, Malcolm! You didn’t do her justice,” Denise released his cheeks and slowly made her way to Clara, taking her hand without waiting for any permission or acceptance on Clara’s part. “Come along, dear, we’ll have some tea as we chat.”

“We are here for Eddie’s birthday, you can’t jus-”

 “Anne said we are waiting for Lucy to get home from school before we have cake and gifts, so that makes time for us to have tea and some gossip,” she stated over her shoulder, matter of fact as she led Clara inside.   

“Be gentle with her,” Malcolm sighed, rubbing life back into his face as Clara sent him an S.O.S. with her eyes. He could only mouth, _Fuckin’ go with it_ ,before he followed them in.

“Uncle Malc!”

“Eddie! The birthday boy,” Malcolm smiled as the boy leapt into his arms, Anne not far behind the boy. “What are you now? Two?”

“No!” He laughed as his uncle’s long fingers tickled at his waist.

“Three?”

“No Uncle Malc! I’m six!”

“Six? No, that can’t be right!” Malcolm dramatized astonishment, and Anne shook her head with a grin as she watched them from the hall.

“My little man is six years old,” Anne pressed a kiss to Malcolm’s cheek before taking Eddie from his arms, “and I remember when you were only a babe. Time passes too quickly. Soon you’ll be asking for the car and running off to do heaven knows what.”

“Clara’s here, by the way,” Malcolm told her as he slid out of his jacket, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I saw mum pulling her into the kitchen before you came in,” she nodded, putting Eddie down. “I don’t mind. In fact, this might be the happiest I’ve seen her since she got here.”

“Of course it is.”

\--

“Seems like Malcolm mentioned me before?” Clara asked as she settled into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, trying not to think about the slight panic she felt being alone with Malcolm’s mum. Though she was around Clara’s height and seemingly frail in old age, there was an appearance of solidity and independence that came off of her. Rather like Malcolm.

“Well, Anne let slip that he had a lady friend over dinner one night, and he can’t keep much from me for long,” Denise grinned triumphantly as she filled the kettle with water, surprisingly mobile for a woman in her late eighties. “But it’s always nice to get to know someone firsthand, though Malcolm speaks so pleasantly about you.”  

“Well,” Clara blushed and returned her smile, something in the older woman’s gentle expression making her feel more at ease, “what would you like to know?”

From that point on, Denise probed and prodded with personal questions that were not too personal, and she was visibly approving of everything she heard. Born in Blackpool, graduated with high marks from university, moved to Reading last year after being hired at Coal Hill University...Denise listened as she went about making their tea, which she did with intense precision, but Clara assumed that was her doing her best to make this conversation as long as possible. She had finished telling Denise the story of how she came to be hired at Coals Hill when she was joined at the table.  

“And how do you like it at Coals Hill?” Denise finally handed Clara her tea, which was sweeter than what should have been legal.

“It’s marvelous,” Clara smiled between polite sips, watching as she spooned another bit of sugar into her steaming cup, “there are very few things that I can complain about. And even those things seem trivial in the bigger picture.”

“And how did you meet Malcolm?”

“The first time we met was in a stairwell, actually,” Clara blushed at the memory, recalling how inquisitively annoyed she felt towards him on that particular day. “We had a department meeting, but I was so nervous that I froze up along the first flight, and he couldn’t get by.”

“That’s rather dull.”

Clara practically spit her tea.

“I’m sorry?”    

“I had a feeling Malcolm was stretching the truth about how you two met,” Denise went on, not considering how her remark sounded. Clara tilted her head curiously at this.

“How did Malcolm say we met?”

“He said he helped you clear up a box of fallen books, and that he realized you had purchased the books on his syllabus to sit in on his course.” Clara could see a bit of a mischievous grin pulling on the elder woman’s face. “Made it sound rather tense, I suppose. But that’s like Malcolm. Always has to embellish a story for his mum.”

“No, actually, that did happen,” Clara informed her. “That was the second time we met, but the first time we had an actual conversation.”

“Well, he must not have been too vulgar if you’re here.”

“Oh no, no he was,” Clara laughed, biting the inside of her cheek, “and still is every bit as vulgar as you know him to be. But he is a gentleman, and a charming, thoughtful individual.”

They both smiled at this, and Clara was glad to have said yes. Glad to have decided to take the chance to meet his mum. Glad to have joined him for coffee all that time ago.  Glad she was sitting in his sister’s kitchen for his nephew’s sixth birthday, talking to his mum over tea. Everything about it seemed so…right.

“He has always been a good man,” Denise remarked almost absently, a sudden, faraway look overcoming the grey hues of her eyes. She stressed the word _always_ , like she may have been trying to convince someone, somewhere along the line of its truth. But she loved Malcolm dearly. Always had, always will. “You know, Clara, life isn’t always kind to the right people.”

In those few spoken words, gravity seemed to pull a little harder, and the air seemed to get a little thicker for breathing. She could hear Malcolm and Anne’s voices wafting through the room, with Eddie’s laughter not far behind it, and Clara watched Denise with concern and curiosity. Why did she shift the conversation in such a way? There had to be a reason for it. Something she wanted to say, or do in the time that they had before the festivities began that made her so keen for Clara to bid her to go on. So she did.

 “What was he like, growing up?” Clara asked slowly, surely, despite the growing tension in her throat.  

“I suppose Malcolm never mentions it.”

“He is open when he wants to be, but it isn’t often, or very revealing.”

“Well, Malcolm was always concerned with others, even as a young boy,” she revealed, leaning towards Clara upon the table. Right question after all. “He craved connection and approval, and he spent a lot of energy pleasing others before thinking about himself. I would fuss over him for it, which he hated. But at what point is it okay for a mother to be alright with her son being so caught up in something that he neglects to eat, or sleep?”

Clara listened as Denise told her about long summers and a few family holidays, of their little home in Glasgow, and how unsatisfied Malcolm was to stay in one place for so long without doing anything significant. She spoke of how strong willed and independent Malcolm grew to be, and how he worked to give back to the family. Clara smiled at an anecdote of how he was frustrated at not being able to repair their stove, and how he put in overtime for two months so he could purchase a new one.

“But he was always like that. Doing things for others, even when it came with a cost,” Denise grimaced. “Malcolm was fifteen when my husband lost his job, and we all suffered for it. John had always been a drinker, but suddenly he was home at all hours. He was not a silent, calm drunk, John. Malc saw me and him in a row one night, and he became very protective.”

Clara was aware that there was abuse in the Tucker family, but she had no idea that Malcolm intervened beyond political parameters. There were tears in both of their eyes by the time Denise changed the topic of conversation, but Clara couldn’t move on. Denise was gushing on valiantly about Malcolm’s art school years when Clara interrupted as politely as she could.

“Did he ever talk to anyone about all of that?”

Denise smiled sadly, noting the distressed look in Clara’s eyes.

“Malcolm did what he always does, dear. He worked harder, and longer, and further away from Glasgow with each passing year. He remembered that he wanted to make a difference, so he buried it all away under files and phone calls,” she glanced towards the hall where Malcolm could be heard, before continuing on with quieter tones. “Did he tell you he was married?”

“Yes, he told me about Jennifer,” Clara exhaled, previously unaware of the fact that she had been holding her breath. “He let on that his work in government came between them.”

“Malcolm was able to balance his life and his career for a few years,” Denise sighed a long sigh, as if expelling air would make it easier to expel memories, “but then he used it as an escape _from_ life. He was good for it, but it was never good for him. I think he recognized that, in the end.”  

Clara didn’t understand. When Malcolm spoke of Jenn, however brief it was during their dinner, he did not say one negative thing about her. He did not express malice, or regret at having been married. He still wore his ring. Clara tried to make sense of why he would avoid his home life to the point of driving others away, when she remembered the only question she ever asked that left Malcolm guarded and avoidant.

“Denise,” Clara began carefully, the rapid pace of her heart telling her it was somehow wrong to ever voice it again, “Does Malcolm have any children?”

Denise sat in silence for a long moment, stirring the remaining contents of her tea distractedly. Clara watched her with regret, keenly aware that the answer to that particular question was never going to be easy.

“Have you tried asking him that?” She asked with composure after what felt like a small eternity for both of them.

“I did once, but he, well…” Clara shrugged, knowing she really didn’t have to say anything more. “He became difficult to reach.”

“If raising Malcolm has taught me anything, Clara, it is this,” Denise Tucker started warmly, grasping Clara’s hands in her age-worn yet motherly-soft ones. “Some people are made to be broken. No matter how hard you try to protect them, there is nothing you can do. It isn’t because they are weak, or vulnerable, or naïve. It’s because they are so devoted to being strong for others, that they forget they are capable of relinquishing control, of asking for help themselves. They internalize it all, and we seldom see the cracks. But they’re always there.”

Clara didn't know what to say, or if there was anything she was meant to be saying, but Denise held her hands gently in her own until Malcolm cheerfully swept into the kitchen with Eddie, Anne, and Lucy on his heels.

\--

“I really enjoyed being with your family today, Malcolm,” Clara told him, nestling her cheek closer into his chest. They were lying on Clara’s couch, the television soft in the background, his arms wrapped around her tightly. “Your present to Eddie was very thoughtful, and I wish I had an eighth of the baking talent Lucy does.”

“They loved you, and I’m glad you agreed to come,” he yawned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “In fact, you and my mum seemed to get on. What did you talk about?”

Clara shifted until she was resting on her elbow, able to see his face.

“This and that. She might know me better than most of my friends, now,” she laughed.

“Better than me?” He raised an eyebrow, stifling another yawn.

“Oh, she might,” Clara teased, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Unfair.”

“Hardly my fault.”

“So it’s fuckin' my fault?”

“It’s no one’s fault, Malcolm. Besides, you can’t be jealous, you know more about me than I know about you.”

“Is that so?” he asked, sliding his hands along her back.  

“Yes,” she sighed, the warmth of his hands raising goose bumps on her skin.

“What do you want to know, then?”

Clara immediately thought of twenty snarky, wonderfully filthy questions that Malcolm would find great embarrassment in answering. Each one was on the tip of her tongue, ready to tumble out with the grace of her sarcastic delivery. But she couldn’t do it.

“Do you trust me, Malcolm?”

He stopped the motion of his hands and peered at her curiously.

“Of course I trust you.”

“No, I mean really trust me, Malcolm,” Clara sat upright and took his hands, squeezing them tightly. “I need to know if you trust me enough to not push me away.”

“Clara, why would I push you away?” His voice was deep and rough in his suspicion.

“If something were to happen to either of us, or if things were difficult,” she went on, the courage she had when she began waning with the steely look he was giving her. “I want you to know that I’m here, Malcolm, for you, for the both of us.”

Malcolm softened as he considered this for a moment, trying to draw some kind of connection to the events that occurred throughout the day and what could have possibly brought this conversation on. At that moment there was something impossibly swimming in her eyes, and he wondered if he would ever grow tired of drowning in them.

“Can I ask you something else?” She whispered, wondering if he had retreated entirely within himself in his silence.

“Anything,” he whispered in return, and he meant it.

“Why do you still wear your wedding ring?”      

He sighed deeply, the question looming unexpected and serving as a swift punch in the stomach.

“As a reminder.”

“What of?”

“When Jenn and I were married, we had a family tragedy and I ran from it, Clara,” He could feel the tightness in his chest, the way his throat was clenching in the telltale signs of tears coming on. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to relive those memories like this. He especially didn’t want her to see him upset, but this was what she meant. She wanted to know if he could give himself to her completely, regardless of whether he was at his best, or at his worst. “I felt so fucking empty that I thought work, and trying to help other people would make up for what we lost. I had never been so fuckin’ wrong in my life.”

Tears built up in Clara’s eyes, a matching pair to those which brimmed in Malcolm’s, and she reached forward tentatively to brush away the first which fell along his cheek. He turned away from her touch, but he kept his eyes focused on hers, willing her to listen to what she wanted to know.

“The hours I was home paled in comparison to the hours I spent in my office, until the day finally came that Jenn was no longer there when I returned,” he leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling, his hands trembling. “She would always tell me that love was a promise, but it was a promise I didn't follow through on. When we got divorced, she told me she hoped I would keep my ring as a reminder. She worried that if I got rid of it, I would never remember.”

"That you couldn't keep that promise?” She asked softly, gripping the fabric of his fleece tightly.  

“No, Clara,” his voice broke over her name. "That I was capable of receiving it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all have enjoyed/are enjoying the holidays.
> 
> I feel the need to explain the last bit of this chapter, because I'm not entirely convinced that I wrote it clearly (and I am always reminding myself that if I have to explain my writing then it isn't clear/good enough, but I like the way I wrote it[?] I don't know).
> 
> “She would always tell me that love was a promise, but it was a promise I didn't follow through on. When we got divorced, she told me she hoped I would keep my ring as a reminder. She worried that if I got rid of it, I would never remember.”  
> "That you couldn't keep that promise?” She asked softly, gripping the fabric of his fleece tightly.  
> “No, Clara,” his voice broke over her name. "That I was capable of receiving it.”
> 
> it = that promise = love
> 
> "She worried that if I got rid of it, I would never remember." = Jenn was worried that he would forget how much he was capable of being loved, and that he would disregard the idea that it was ever possible in the first place. This goes back to when Malcolm's mum mentioned that he had a need to feel connection and approval when he was growing up. He was always skeptical of the affection he received. He didn't need more cuddles as a child, just a less distrusting mind.


	12. October 18th 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being re-written. If you are new to the story, please skip this chapter for the time being.

Clara exhaled lazily, the slow draw of being awake gradually pulling her from slumber. In her lingering drowsy haze she could feel the sun seeping through her bedroom window, the warmth of her duvet, the sensation of a sandpaper-esque texture ghosting over her neck. _Sandpaper…_ She quickly battered her hand at the presence, only to snap her eyes open at the grunt she received for her solid contact.

Malcolm was suspended over her, his hands holding him up over her body, his head dipped down to her throat as he peppered her skin with gentle kisses. He had stopped only momentarily when he felt her hand on his cheek, but pressed on when she didn’t protest the attention.

“You need to shave,” she yawned, tilting her chin up as he nuzzled against her jawline.

“Good morning to you as well,” he murmured, easing his weight onto his forearms.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly seven.”

“It isn’t even seven o’clock,” Clara groaned, closing her eyes when Malcolm grazed her ear with his teeth, “Malcolm, its Saturday.”

“Have you any idea how fucking boring it is being the only one awake at six,” he lowered his hips, spreading her bare legs with a knee, “and how breathtaking you are?”

Clara placed her hands on his chest, playing with the sparse wiry white curls beneath her fingers. His lips were on the pulse of her neck and he was biting lightly on the skin before soothing it with caresses of his tongue, and she couldn’t help humming appreciatively. Malcolm was always devilishly clever with his mouth.

“Come here,” Clara pushed against his chest until she could comfortably trail her hands along his neck and through his hair, pulling him down to her lips.

The kiss started slow, open mouthed and soft with their attentions, as if the moment was too fragile to approach with anything greater than the utmost care. Clara loved when he kissed her this way. It made the world spin just that much slower, giving them more time to simply be with one another. But, like most of the kisses they stole in the privacy of her bedroom, it was quick to turn heated, and consuming.

Last night they managed to put together some semblance of decency before settling under the covers, but at this point Malcolm’s pants and the oversized shirt Clara was wearing were increasingly annoying to the both of them. Hands sought breasts and hips rolled suggestively, both parties muttering with impatient frustration at the fabric barriers.

Malcolm made quick work of her shirt as Clara pulled off his briefs, the clothing joining the previously discarded apparel already on the floor. Soon, Malcolm was panting heavily as Clara worked his hardening length between her fingers, her even strokes only faltering with the attention he was giving her between her thighs.   

“Christ, Malcolm,” she moaned, arching into his hand as he pressed a second finger inside her. “Do you plan to wake me like this ev- ** _ah_** , every morning? Or is today special?”

“I will, if you’d like,” he muttered huskily, reaching for her wrist, “though I do have something planned for the weekend.”

“So you woke me up before seven?” Clara tightened her grip on his erection, grinning at the strangled groan it earned her. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Better fuckin’ not be,” he teased breathily, silently complying when she pressed his hips closer to hers with her free hand. Clara guided him in as Malcolm thrust deeply, entering her with a pleasured sigh and passionate kiss.

The first time they had sex it was hesitant yet greedy, both of them exploring and taking what they could when they realized they could take it. Afterwards, Malcolm had wondered if that would be the end of it. If whatever it was that was forming between them had reached its peak, and would taper off into awkward glances and overall avoidance. Clara had wondered the same, considering the possibility that living too fast would sooner snuff out the embers of passion than stoke them.

The following morning they were thrilled to understand that they were both worried for nothing.

“ _Clara_ ,” Malcolm gasped, his grip on Clara’s hips tightening reflexively. She consistently ended up on top, and Malcolm never so much as thought a word against it. He thrust upwards to complement the sinful way she was riding him.

She could feel her legs trembling beneath her, the pressure in her stomach building with each movement of their hips. Her breath hitched before she moaned his name, his thumb stroking her closer to orgasm. He was an attentive lover, always pushing her over the edge before himself, never leaving the bed until she was thoroughly spent and wrapped in his arms. With a few more frantic and less than synchronized thrusts they both came, eyes closed and gasped words of awe on their lips. After, Clara laid across his chest, his arms wrapping securely around her waist as they calmed their rapidly beating hearts.

“Good morning, Malcolm,” Clara smiled, laughing lightly at the mocking growl which rumbled beneath her cheek. “So…”

“Hm?”

“What are these plans you mentioned?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, shrugging a bit, “I thought maybe we could go up to Glasgow for the weekend. It would be a nice change of pace.”

Clara rolled over and sat up, casting him a look somewhere between _are you joking_ and _are you mental_.

“If you don’t want to go we don’t have to.” Malcolm pushed himself up until he was against the bed’s headboard. “But I’ll do anything so long as you stop fucking looking at me like I should be sanctioned under the mental health act.”

“What? No, Malcolm, shut up,” Clara sighed, “I’d love to go, really.”

“But?”

“ _But_ we are in the middle of midterms for our classes.”

“All the more reason to go.”

“We are both extremely busy.”

“All the _more_ fucking reason to go.”

“What do you mean, _all the more reason to go_?” she flailed her arms a bit, narrowing her eyes.

“I didn’t take you for the fuckin’ goody-two shoes, coloring inside the lines with black and white fuckin’ shades of boring, type.” Malcolm’s tone was frustrated and biting, but he softened at the hurt, wide eyed look she was giving him. “Where is your sense of adventure?”

“Oh, don’t you dare question my sense of adventure,” Clara scoffed, “I’m dating you, aren’t I?”

Clara felt as if a rather large object suddenly lodged itself in her throat, her words coming out unexpected and scolding hot on the ears. They never discussed it, never took the time to label themselves. She glanced at Malcolm hesitantly, but he looked as if he were seeing the stars for the first time.

“Yes,” he breathed the words softly, filling her lungs with each syllable, “yes you are, Clara.”

\--

REWRITING WILL OCCUR AT SOME POINT FOR THE SECOND HALF OF THE CHAPTER


	13. November 14th 2014

Clara was browsing the rather impressive array of DVDs Malcolm had lining the shelves of his entertainment center, hoping to make a selection sometime before he returned from his bedroom. She was nearly on the verge of deciding on a poorly hidden Hugh Grant film when his cell phone began vibrating against the glass of his coffee table. She glanced towards his bedroom, then down at the illuminated screen.

_Call From: Jamie MacDonald._

She knew Malcolm would look into the call if it were important, he was always quick to respond whenever his Blackberry was concerned, so she let it to go to voicemail and returned to looking for a film for their quiet evening after visiting Danny’s. Then there was pounding at the front door.

Clara cautiously peered through the peephole, taking in the man on the door step. He was dressed in a black suit and red tie, his hair tussled yet tame, his eyes pacing between his phone and the surface of the door.

Jamie hit double send on his mobile just as he was ready to knock harder, but he heard the lock turn and the handle engage, and without waiting he pushed himself inside.

“Alright you fuckin’ prick, I’ve be-” he snapped, wheeling on who he thought would be Malcolm, when he saw a petite brunette with wide eyes backing away from him. “Oh, ah, shit.”

“Yeah, shit is an appropriate response,” Clara exhaled, folding her arms over her chest. She looked over him more intrusively as he surveyed the hall, no doubt looking for Tucker. Scottish. Thicker accent than Malcolm’s. Taller than her, but shorter than their mutual acquaintance. Handsome, but there was something slightly unhinged about him that Clara couldn’t quite put her finger on.  

“Sorry. Is Malcolm about?”

“He’s in the shower. Should be out in a couple of minutes.”

“Right,” Jamie nodded, putting his hands on his hips, swaying from foot to foot.

“Would you like to come in?” Clara questioned, amused by his fidgety movements when only a moment ago she felt he had an upper hand in posturing. “I mean properly come in, I could make some tea?”  

“Make some tea?” Jamie laughed, “You’re inviting me in and you don’t know anything about me.”

 “I know you called Malcolm twice in the last five minutes, that he has your number programed into his phone, and that you are not concerned about barging into his house at the first hint of life behind the door,” Clara went on, a bit of boredom in her tone, “so I think it is safe to say that I am going to be just fine, Mr. MacDonald.”

“Alright Sherlock, you’ve proven your point,” he shook his head, privately impressed, “but I’m goin’ to wait right here if that’s all the same.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “How do you know Malcolm?”

“What is this, a preliminary fuckin’ hearing? I know him.”

“Just answer the question,” she replied, her well used teacher-voice in full effect.  

“We used to work together,” Jamie began to pace, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I’m a friend of his.”

“Of the _fuckin’ prick_ ,” Clara nodded, turning her back on him and walking back towards the living room. She fought off the urge to look over her shoulder, but she could hear the heels of his shoes as he followed behind her.

“Aye, he’s a right fuck, and I don’t recommend gettin’ involved with your professors,” Jamie quipped, running his hands through his hair as he sat across from her on the sofa.

“Excuse me?” Clara laughed incredulously, gaping slightly. “Firstly, I am not one his students. Secondly, don’t pass comment on what I should and should not do.”

“I’m just lookin’ out for you.”

“I can do that myself.”

“I have a feeling you can.”

Clara quirked her head at the thoughtful expression which fell over Jamie’s face. She had no way of knowing that he was referring to the strength of will someone surely had to have in order to have any kind of relationship with Malcolm. Jamie and Malcolm had endured many tumultuous things together, but not even their many years of knowing one another in, or out of work could see their friendship safely beyond the political war they were fighting. But Clara could not see all of that in his eyes, even if hers were lingering on his face too long to be polite.

“How do _you_ know Malcolm?” Jamie asked after a long moment, his tone conversational, though his hands never stopped subtly wringing each other out.

“We work together,” she shrugged, realizing that it was a rather dull start to a romance. Being with Malcolm was rarely ever dull, so it didn’t seem fitting that they didn’t meet after she saved him from distractedly stepping into traffic, or him sharing an umbrella with her at a random intersection during a downpour.

“He changed his rule then.”

“What rule?”

“No office romances,” Jamie quirked his lips, raising his brow suggestively.

“What makes you think we are romantically involved?” Clara asked casually, masking how interested she was in his response.

“You are in his house, wearing pajamas, and offering me tea as if you live here yourself,” Jamie leaned forward, glad to turn some deductive tables, “not to mention the fact that you have been close enough to his phone to know my number is programmed in it, and you have a touch of a bruise peeking from the collar of your shirt. I don’t imagine you walked into a table with your throat?”

Clara blushed deeply, but smiled at the intuition that she invited. “Very well done, Watson. You may make a consulting detective, yet.”  

They both smiled and eased into their surroundings, the living room feeling a touch less stiff with the revelation that they both quite liked the one another. Clara could tell he was being reserved, what with the careful way he was minding his previous language, and she was touched by the unnecessary politeness of the gesture. She thought perhaps Malcolm could have picked that up from his friend.

This was the last calm thought she had all evening.

“Clara, have you seen where I put my slippers? Can’t fuckin’ find ‘em.”

 “They’re in here,” Clara got to her feet, retrieving them from under the coffee table.

When she stood upright she noted that Jamie was also standing, glancing towards the hall where Malcolm’s footsteps could be heard coming closer. She looked over him with questioning eyes. He seemed nervous all of a sudden, which was a drastic change from the suave body language he had begun to exhibit. She started pulling at her night shirt unconsciously, his uncertainty contagious.  

When Malcolm emerged from around the corner, the air in the room became too thick to breath.

“Aye, Malc,” Jamie nodded.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Malcolm hissed quietly at first, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides before he raised his voice. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Pleasure to see you, too,” Jamie sighed, “what’s it been, seven years or something?”

“With good reason,” he snapped.

“No, not with good reason you bastard. I’ve been tryin-”

“Fuck you,” Tucker spat.

“Why can’t we just have a conversation without you turning into my fuckin’ ex-wife?” Jamie sounded exasperated, but he too took to a louder voice and more threatening stance.

“Because I was in fuckin’ shambles those seven years ago, and you were at the helm of your cunt-laden news office pushin’ the headlines to piss all over me!”

“If you didn’t fuck yourself first I would have never had to touch the story,” Jamie bellowed, jabbing a finger at the space between them. “You fucked yourself over, so don’t even pretend that you were an innocent.”

“I needed someone, you twat!”

Jamie glared and rubbed a hand roughly over his mouth. “I wanted to call you before that article went out.”

“How considerate of you,” Malcolm dramatized praise, hand gestures and all, his teeth bared in a frightening grin. “Did you fuckin’ let him in?”

Clara knew the venom wasn’t her fault. She didn’t bring this out in him, not tonight. But when his attention fell on her for the first time since he entered the room, she felt scalded.

“It doesn’t matter,” Malcolm waved a dismissive hand, “I want you to fuck off. Now.”  

Clara shifted her weight uncomfortably, entirely sure of the fact that she did not want to be in the room anymore. Malcolm looked ten years older in his anger, his now grey eyes storm laden and weaponized. Jamie certainly had the look of a man who could punch Malcolm into next week, but there was a reluctance in the line of his shoulders that suggested he wanted nothing of the sort. Clara felt loss for both of them.

“Why don’t I show you out, Jamie?” Clara asked while her eyes were on Malcolm. His quickly settled on hers, but he was already somewhere else.

“A fine idea,” Malcolm mumbled before turning on his heels, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

\--

“I’m so sorry, Jamie, I didn’t realize,” Clara trailed off, hugging her arms around her to ward off the bite of the night air.

“Best not to dwell on it,” Jamie grimaced sympathetically, offering her a hand, “he’ll come around eventually.”

"I'll make sure of it."

"Good luck," he sighed.  

“Has it really been seven years?”

“Technically, no.”

“Technically?”

“It’s been two,” Jamie confessed hesitantly, glancing towards the front door.

“So why now?”

“What?”

“Why wait two years to see him again?”

“The last time I saw him he was in the hospital,” Jamie cringed at the memory, “and I wasn’t about to wait around for that to happen again.”

“Again,” Clara echoed, the air rushing from her lungs. _Malcolm_. She barely registered the concerned look Jamie was giving her before she shook her head and put on a noticeably fake smile. “Well, Jamie, I’m sure it would have been a pleasure. I mean, it was for a few minutes, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, it was, Clara,” he clasped her hand warmly once she accepted his outstretched palm. “Take care of him.”

_I’ll try._

“I will.”

\--

Clara hesitated at Malcolm’s bedroom door, sliding a palm against the hard surface before gathering the nerve to knock. She entered when he bid her to, her newfound knowledge resting uncomfortably in her mind. _It was two years ago. Two years is good. A lot of things can happen in two years. Two years ago since what, exactly?_

“Hi,” she whispered, leaning on the door frame.

He looked at her over his glasses. He was quick to find a book to focus on after he stormed off, and he was reluctant to meet her eye for too long. “Are you going to actually come in, or stand there all night?”

 _This isn’t him_.

“Would you prefer it if I left, Malcolm?”

The book dropped onto the duvet.

“If you’d like to be alone, that is.”

His glasses hit the nightstand.

“I don’t have to _leave_ , leave, I could just sleep on the couch tonight.”

 The covers were thrown aside.

“I understand if-”

Malcolm pulled her against him tightly, his long limbs wrapping around her in a secure embrace. Clara melted to him, but kept her arms at her side, biting on the inside of her cheek.

“If anyone would be sleeping on the couch, it would be me,” he murmured into her hair, her eyes closed tight. “You have to understand, Jamie and I were-”

“Lovers.”

“What?” Malcolm pulled back, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes wider than tea saucers.

“It was a joke, Malcolm,” Clara tried a smile, but she was certain it was more of a crooked frown. “You were good friends, right? I think he’s sincere in his want to patch things up.”

“That hardly matters.”

“I think you need to pull your head out of your ass,” Clara stated simply, stepping out of his grasp.

“Is that right?”

“Yes, definitely.”

Malcolm felt himself drowning all over again. She was right, of course. Somehow, she always ended up being right.

“Go fix it.”

Clara pressed his phone into his hand and a kiss to his cheek before climbing onto the bed.

“And when you come back, we are watching _Music and Lyrics_.”

“I told Anne to fuckin’ take that back to her house,” he groaned, knowing full well that he would destroy the DVD after she fell asleep. “Couldn’t we watch something else?”

“You don’t get a vote.”   

“Whatever you say.”

\--

A few minutes later, Clara slipped off the bed and pressed herself against the door. She didn’t want to be rude, of course, but she did want some kind of confirmation that maybe Malcolm would accept the possibility of making amends. Or at least try to.    

_Jamie. Yes it’s me, who else would fuckin’ be callin’ you from my phone._

_No._

_Look, I just –_

_Have you forgotten how to shut the fuck up for two seconds, or has no one told you to do that since we were in Number 10?_

Clara strained when his voice muffled. He was most likely pacing between the dining and living room.

_…I didn’t realize she had, no._

_He upped the milligrams._

_Yeah, 325._

There was silence for a few long moments, and Clara had to remind herself to breathe.  

_Well, Jamie, heart attacks will do that to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :/


	14. November 15th 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the Chapter Notes at the end of this chapter - there are two potential endings for the story which branch out after this chapter, and the end note explains this. Thank you for reading!

Early Morning, November 15th

Clara kept her eyes focused on the far side of Malcolm’s bedroom as she listened to his breathing, and the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear as he slept soundly beside her. The gentle cadence beneath his chest reassured and terrified her. The film did well to distract them both for the time being, his spirits improved drastically after having a sort of turn around with Jamie. Clara could only guess at how the end of their conversation went, as she had forcefully stopped herself from listening.  

While Malcolm slept she was plagued with guilt. She wished that she had never eavesdropped. She was sure that Malcolm would have told her if it ever became relevant, but from what she could gleam of the conversation, the condition of his heart was a recent concern.

Recent enough that Jamie would force himself back into Malcolm’s life after two years.

Jamie.

He knew what happened two years ago, and surely knew more about what was going on now than she did. For whatever reason he had, Malcolm decided not to tell Clara about any of it. But Jamie…

Carefully, Clara shifted in Malcolm’s arms until she was clear of his body. She watched as he turned onto his side, unconsciously reaching for the suddenly missing warmth, and did not move again until she was sure he was soundly resting. She fumbled about in the dark of the room for both of their phones, cursing silently when she sent his glasses tumbling to the floor.

No movement from the bed.

When she had both devices in hand she crept from the room, only turning a light on when she was concealed on the other side of his home.

2:36 a.m.

Clara brought up Malcolm’s recent calls and programmed Jamie’s number in her phone, well aware that Tucker would notice if there were one too many outgoing calls from his Blackberry. She didn’t think he would answer at this hour of the morning, but she punched in a quick message to Jamie anyway, intent on establishing communication as quickly as possible.

 _I have to know_ , Clara thought with conviction, struggling to justify all of this, _I have to know._

[To: Jamie] Jamie, this is Clara. I’d like to speak with you, but Malcolm can’t know. Is that okay?

She teased her bottom lip between her teeth, unsure of how to proceed. She could return to bed and wait for his reply, of course, but that would risk Malcolm waking before her and seeing any response Jamie gave. The patter of Clara’s bare feet as she paced, and the steady ticking of the clock, were all that could be heard in the room until her phone vibrated in her palm.

[From: Jamie] Have you any idea how late it is?

[To: Jamie] Sorry, I didn’t think about waking you.

[From: Jamie] You didn’t. I mean that you should be sleeping.

[To: Jamie] Oh, well that’s good I suppose.

[From: Jamie] Why can’t Malcolm know we are talking?

[From: Jamie] I know I’m sinfully handsome, but I’m not one to make a cuckold.

Clara’s eyes widened, suddenly realizing how this probably appeared. _Smooth, Oswald._

[From: Jamie] I’m joking, of course. I’d send one of those winking smiley things but I don’t know how to fucking find them on my keypad.

[To: Jamie] Amazing.

[To: Jamie] He can’t know because I want to talk about him. 

Clara was unsure how Jamie would respond to that. Going behind Malcolm’s back and meeting was certainly not what he hoped for in coming around, and she felt even guiltier about asking if he would. About a minute passed, but it felt like a small eternity, until finally,

[From: Jamie] Lunch, tomorrow afternoon? I’ll pick you up.

[To: Jamie] From his house? This is a sort of covert operation.

[From: Jamie] Just walk down the street a bit and I’ll get you then.  

[To: Jamie] That could work.

[From: Jamie] Of course it could.

[To: Jamie] Okay, good. How’s noon?

[From: Jamie] Fine. Text me in the morning.

[To: Jamie] Thank you for doing this, Jamie, really.

[From: Jamie] Don’t thank me yet. Go to bed.

Clara slipped back into the bedroom and carefully placed their phones on the nightstand. She eased herself onto the mattress and under the duvet, gasping when she saw that Malcolm was lying on his side, watching her hazily.

“Everything ok?” He asked, reaching his hand out for her.

“Everything’s fine, Malcolm,” Clara whispered, maneuvering until her back was pressed to his chest. He was warm and inviting, and when he wrapped his arm around her waist, she hummed contentedly. “Sorry I woke you.”

“S’okay,” he yawned and pressed a feather light kiss to her shoulder, holding her a little tighter.

Afternoon, November 15th

“Afternoon, Jamie,” Clara spoke quickly, buckling her seatbelt when she all but dove into his car.

“Aye, hello,” Jamie nodded, cutting the wheel and pulling away from Sherwood as fast as allowed. “I feel like I’ve just kidnapped you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she huffed, catching her breath. She may or may not have run down the street in order to avoid prying questions, and was now trying to settle her rapid pulse. “If anything it is the other way ‘round.”

 “What are you, 5’1”?” He asked, dodging traffic with a definitely illegal maneuver. “I think I could take you.”

“I hardly think so.”

“How long do we have before Malcolm starts trying to reach you?”

“I dunno, two hours, tops?”

“Well, what did you tell him?”

“I told him I wanted to go for a walk, get some fresh air. There’s a park a few streets over, isn’t there?”

“I could have thought of a better reason than that,” Jamie scoffed, shaking his head.

“Well, I’ll brush up on my cover stories for when I become an agent for the Queen.”

Jamie snorted and smiled, a chuckle passing through his lips as he pulled over in front of a small coffee shop. Clara grinned as they walked in together, momentarily forgetting the reason she asked him to meet her. But he didn’t.

“So, what happened?” Jamie asked after they settled in towards the back of the sitting area, armed with coffee and chips, and an hour to do with what they could.

“Nothing _happened_ ,” Clara began, the nerves of last night creeping into her with a greater hold. “It was something I heard.”   

“Something I said?” Jamie raised a brow as he blew on his coffee, running through their conversations in his head.

“And something Malcolm said, that I overheard, that he doesn’t know I now know,” her voice tapered off.   

“You’re going to have to be more forward, love, I can’t read minds.”

Jamie could see that whatever it was that was concerning her was really eating her up. He could see it in the way she pushed her chips around distractedly, the way she swallowed slowly as if there was something thick lodged in her throat. He knew next to nothing about her, but it was clear that she thought the world of Malcolm. And he thought the world of her, too.    

“You said Malcolm was in the hospital,” Clara ground her teeth, twisting one of the rings on her finger.

“I did.”

“And I heard Malcolm on the phone with you,” she continued, “he had a heart attack two years ago, didn’t he?”

There was no question, really, but she wanted some kind of confirmation that she heard correctly before she approached Malcolm. She wanted Jamie to tell her the truth of everything that had happened, and was happening, because she _knew_ Malcolm. She knew he would paint an impressionist portrait of what was going on, that way he could obscure the harshest of details while giving her a surface perspective of what she wanted to know. He wouldn’t coat the truth in bells and whistles to distract her, but he would soften the blow in the way only he could.  

“Yes,” Jamie exhaled slowly, looking up from his coffee, his face all eyes and worried lines.

“Was it bad?”

“They determined it was stress related,” Jamie leaned forward. “I don’t know how much Malcolm talks about what he did in government, but the fucker carried the party on his shoulders for years. No one envied him.”

“But that would have been five years after he left politics,” Clara thought aloud, her nose scrunching in concentration. “He was teaching at the time.”  

“It caught up to him,” Jamie drank deeply from his cup, wincing at the still steaming beverage. “When we first met we were both in our twenties, working for some political journal in Glasgow. He was always cut out for fuckin’ takin’ the world by storm with the way that he worked, and no one could touch him, but he always made sure I was right there with him.

“I was good, but Malcolm was the fuckin’ pharaoh.” Clara smiled at the thought, and Jamie mirrored with remembrance. “Anyway, what I meant to be gettin’ at is that I worked with him for twenty odd years, and when old circles from Number 10 found out that he had a heart attack, no one was entirely surprised.”

“Oh,” Clara inhaled sharply through her teeth. “And now?”

“Malcolm didn’t give me all of the details,” he admitted, “just that they upped the strength of his aspirin regiment as a precaution.”

“Why wouldn’t he have told me any of this?” Clara felt hurt to have been kept out of the loop, especially when it came to something with this much gravity. She spent the previous night reflecting on things that Malcolm said, and did in the past that she had never quite understood, but those little details of who he was were finally starting to make sense.

“They are still working things out. I’m sure he didn’t want to worry you prematurely, he was always sensitive to that,” Jamie paused for a moment, considering everything they just discussed, and what it meant to them. What it meant for her. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Clara sighed disconsolately. How could she be?

“That’s perfectly fine,” Jamie nodded, wringing his hands together as he did the previous night. “I don’t know that I can say anything more on the matter, or offer any comforts, but I think talking to Malcolm will help.”

“Thank you, Jamie,” Clara spoke sincerely, and neither commented on the apology unspoken between them.

Evening, November 15th

Clara was instantly struck with the savory, pleasant smell of baking as the warmer air of Malcolm’s home rushed into the steadily growing chill of the evening. She hesitated for a fraction of a second at the door, but pressed on when she heard the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

“Whatever you’re cooking, it smells delicious,” Clara crossed the kitchen to where Malcolm was tending to something on the stove top, and she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his back.

“That’s because it is going to be,” he smirked, putting the lid back on their curry. “Can’t imagine you’re hungry, though.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“How was lunch with Jamie?” He asked smoothly, glancing as far over his shoulder as he could, a smirk on his lips.

“Wha - did he tell you?” Clara groaned, burrowing her face between his shoulder blades.

Malcolm laughed, “I saw you running off and getting into his car. Honestly, Clara, you may be the shittest James Bond ever.”

They both laughed at that, and Malcolm extricated himself from her grasp so he could face her. Clara smiled up at him, warmth, and compassion, and yearning in her eyes. He looked so at ease with her there, leaning into his tall frame, running her hands up his back, and she wanted it to stay that way.

“Your lunch,” he raised a questioning brow, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face.

“Was nice,” Clara shrugged.

“A bit odd, don’t you think,” Malcolm looked up as if in deep thought. “You speak with someone for all of what, twenty minutes? Yeah? And then you are having lunch with them the next day.”

“Coffee and chips, _hardly_ scandalous, Malcolm,” she huffed, blowing into his face.

“I know it was nothing scandalous, Clara, Jamie texted me this morning.”

“What?! So he did text you!"

“He had a feeling you would be rubbish making an excuse to leave, and he preferred that I didn’t think something scandalous _was_ going on.”

“You don’t think I would-”

“I don’t, no.”

“But Jamie thought you might be jealous?”

“Would you blame me?”  

“No, I suppose not,” Clara cuddled closer to his chest, “I just never thought of you being jealous.”

“Ah, well, the human heart is a fickle, traitorous thing,” Malcolm commented absently, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Suddenly, Clara found herself caught in a labyrinth of thoughts and questions that kept her tongue tied. She wanted to agree, to say something witty to go along with the unexpected depth of the statement, but she was lost, only able to focus on the unfortunate coincidence in his choice of language. _A traitorous thing indeed._

Clara stepped back from his embrace and drew her lower lip between her teeth, the action eliciting a concerned look from Malcolm. With a slightly trembling hand she smoothed over the fabric of his dress shirt, the cadence of his heart beating against her palm, and brown eyes met grey in a multitude of unspoken questions.

“I know, Malcolm,” she whispered.

“What?”

“That you had a heart attack,” Clara answered, fighting the urge to look away. “Two years ago.”

Malcolm exhaled heavily, bringing a hand to rest atop hers. “Yes, I did.”

Clara swallowed, noting the crestfallen mold of his mouth.

“I heard you talking to Jamie on the phone,” she pushed lightly on his chest, and it was his turn to resist averting his eyes, “and I know that you are going through something _now_. I’m sure you have your reasons for keeping me in the dark, Malcolm, but I know. Please...”

“Do you remember Eddie’s birthday?” Malcolm asked, baffling Clara judging from the expression on her face, but she nodded affirmation anyway. “That morning when I canceled lecture, it was because I was seeing my doctor.”

“Jackman.”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I had a rapid pulse,” he stated as noncommittally as possible, so as to keep them both above the surface for the time being, “but in subsequent appointments that wasn’t always the case.”

Clara followed along silently, hyper-aware of the rhythmic beating of his heart beneath her palm. She knew what it meant to have an irregular, fast heartbeat.  

“What are they doing to help?” Clara asked, unsatisfied with the answer even before she heard it.  

“For the time being, they have increased the strength of the aspirin I am taking for my regiment.”

“What does that mean, ‘for the time being’?”

“It means I am doing everything I can, and need to do, at this moment in time,” Malcolm sighed,

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Clara processed everything she heard, and all of the implications that came with it. Malcolm watched her with concern, and he stroked his thumb along the soft skin of her hand as she left him alone with his own thoughts. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, softly, sweetly, with a lingering desperation behind it that spoke volumes of how much he needed her. He needed her comfort, her presence, and the soft assurances that she was going to be there beside him, through it all.     

“I wanted to wait, of course, but I think you could do with this, now,” he began, taking the curry off the stove and leaving her utterly perplexed in the kitchen. She followed him from the kitchen to his study, where she found him retrieving an envelope from inside his desk.  

“Happy early birthday, Clara,” Malcolm murmured quietly as she took the envelope from his offering hands.   

Despite the emotional context behind the early reveal, there was a boyish excitement, and contagious, youthful gleam in his eyes, so Clara make quick work to find out what was inside.

It was an ornately drawn card - undoubtedly colored by an over enthusiastic Eddie – containing a second envelope, and the following note:

_Clara,_

_Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope it has been brilliant, as you deserve no less, and so much more._

_Inside this envelope you will find a plane ticket with your name on it, leaving the London Heathrow Airport at 9:31 a.m. on December 20 th, for Italy. Your return ticket will not have to be printed for another few weeks, as the flight home leaves at 7:05 p.m. on January 4th. I trust you won’t mind, but I will be there to share in your joy, and wonder, and wide-eyed awe at the many incredible things you will see during our time there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  _

_Nikki Giovanni once said, “We love because it is the only true adventure.”_

_What an awfully big adventure it has been so far._

_Always yours,_

_MdT_

Clara closed the card and brushed tears from her cheeks, a sob-like laugh escaping her throat as a rush of emotions assaulted her from all angles. There were so many things that she wanted to say, so many words that held some semblance to what she was feeling, but those words would never be enough. All of this was absurd, and so entirely indicative of who they were. Doing the best with what they were given, making the most out of the least they could be.

“You must be insane,” she managed, the words difficult to translate from her muddled brain to her tangled tongue. “You are absolutely mental.”

“Only because you make me that way,” Malcolm said, his voice hushed and adoring.

“What about yo-”

“I go back to see him the a few days before we leave,” he informed her, hoping to ease some of the tension in the lines around her mouth.

“We shouldn’t travel, Malcolm,” Clara insisted, moving her hand from his chest, “not when you are-”

“That’s no way to live, Clara. Besides,” he laughed morbidly at the thought, “if the doctor says I shouldn’t fly you can always send me a postcard from Tuscany. I hear that’s the next best thing to fuckin’ bein’ there.”

Clara couldn’t help sharing in his laughter, the tension in the air dissipating just enough for her shoulders to ease into gentle slopes. Malcolm closed the distance between them and rested his head on her shoulder, nuzzling the bridge of his nose against her neck as he exhaled slowly. They both thought about the future, of their individual concerns for what it held, but both privately believed that the best of who they were was the person wrapped in their arms.

“Thank you so, so much, Malcolm,” Clara whispered sweetly, stunned disbelief still in her voice. “You know, what you wrote in this card _kind of_ implies that you love me.”

“It doesn’t imply that.” The words rushed from Malcolm’s lips without hesitation, his brow creased and eyes soft, yet focused as he lifted his head and gauged her response. “It says precisely that.”

Clara felt numb with the shock of his confession, surprised to have been given the words to explain every stolen glance, every chaste touch, and small smile that was only ever meant for her eyes.

“I didn’t think I would ever have the chance to say these words again,” Malcolm continued, starting to sway slightly, holding her closer, “but I love you, Clara. I truly do. I tried not to, I swear I did, but I don’t think I ever had a choice in the matter.”

\--

“Could you say it again for me, Malcolm?” Clara mumbled sleepily, the scratch of her nails on his scalp slowing as she started to drift off. They had moved into his bedroom after dinner, a quiet desperation driving their passions as revelations and confessions passed freely from their lips like the kisses they stole before settling down for the night. Now, Malcolm was lying with his head on her shoulder, his arm draped heavily over her waist as he traced lazy circles on her side.

“I said a lot of things tonight,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. “Would you like me to repeat everything until I get it right?”  

She swatted lightly at the back of his head. “Stop being an asshole.”

“That’s my girl,” Malcolm smiled, nestling closer to her.  

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet,” Clara recited softly, recalling with great fondness the first time Malcolm let down his guard, offered her a place in his arms, and unlearned how to let go.  

“But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams,” Malcolm finished, his voice tender, and raw, and everything Clara needed it to be. “I love you, Clara Oswald.”

Sweeter words had never been spoken, and she replayed them in her head until they became ingrained in every memory they shared. Clara finally closed her eyes as the warm breath across her chest evened into occasional snores and the soft sounds of sleep, and with one final kiss to his hair, she allowed herself the final word.

“Tread softly, Malcolm,” Clara breathed into the air, holding him a little tighter.

_One. The human heart is a fickle thing._

_Two. Malcolm Tucker loves me._

_Three. I love Malcolm Tucker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two endings to this story (sort of like a "Choose your own adventure" story). 
> 
> Chapters 15 and 16 are the original ending: please refer to the Archive Warnings if/when you choose to read the original ending. 
> 
> Chapters 17 and 18 are the alternate ending: please refer to the Archive Warning if/when you choose to read this ending, as there is a potentially triggering event, but know that it ends quite differently. 
> 
> Whichever you choose to read, whether you read both or only the Alternate Ending, I hope that you will be pleased with what I've done with the story.


	15. December 14th, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic, potentially triggering content. Please refer to the Archive Warning if you are concerned that this may apply to you.

_This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper._

December 14th 2014

“Coffee,” Malcolm declared vaguely, peering at her above his glasses.

He and Clara were in his study, sitting around his desk as they went above their separate business. Malcolm had been busy scribbling notes in the margins of an already annotated final exam, and Clara was multi-tasking, her attention divided between finishing up preparations for her course’s final tomorrow afternoon, and the plethora of travel brochures she printed from online. There were Post-It Notes covering the desk, restaurant and museum addresses scribbled on each.

“Are you offering?” Clara responded with a playful arch of her eyebrows. She only looked over the edge of the book she was reading when he didn’t reply. “What’s wrong?”

“Felt a bit off, all of a sudden,” he confessed uneasily, calmly removing his frames from around his ears. He hadn’t felt well when he woke that morning, either, but that moment in particular was... He smiled quickly so as to dismiss the concerned look she shot him. “Probably nothing.”

“ _’Probably’_ is not a convincing word,” she warned, eyeing him with scrutiny.

“You cooked dinner last night, yeah?”

“Yes?”

Malcolm stood and walked around his desk, cupping her face gently and pressing his lips to her forehead. “That must be it, then. Spoon of sugar and a dash of cream?”

“Malcolm,” she pressed, frowning.

“My appointment is,” he paused and glanced at his watch. 9:32 a.m. “in an hour. I’ll mention it when I go in.”

“Okay,” she nodded, uncertainty still in her voice. This wasn’t the first time in the past few weeks that Malcolm confided in her about a change in how he felt. They both grew accustomed to waiting on the phone to hear from Dr. Jackman on how to proceed. Aspirin was always the answer, and after a lie down he would be fine.

Malcolm leaned down further and kissed her cheek, earning an affectionate smile before he strode off towards the kitchen, purpose driving the pace of his steps.

A few more Post-Its and a long exhale later and Clara perked up, certain that she heard her name coming from down the hall.

“Yes?” 

There was a shuffle and silence, followed seconds later by the sound of shattering glass upon hardwood flooring

“Malcolm?” Clara called, leaping to her feet and quickening her pace to a sprint when no reply came. The closer she came to the kitchen the more she yearned for the previous, comfortable silence that kept them safe from the reality of the moment.

“ _Clara_ ,” Malcolm was breathless, leaning heavily upon the counter as he grasped his chest. He was panting and sweating, his face contorted in a deep grimace. The shattered glass at his feet was everywhere, and she trembled when she recognized precisely what was happening. 

“Aspirin, Malcolm, where do you keep it?” Clara rushed towards the cabinet, but he grabbed at her shoulder and gestured towards the open bottle on the counter. “Did you take some?”

“Call an ambulance,” he managed after a curt nod, his knees bending impossibly as gravity defied his will to stay upright. Her fingers were clumsy on the keypad of her phone, her hands wild with tremors as a dispatcher answered on the other line.

“Yes, I need an ambulance at – Malcolm!”  

The impact of his body on the floor was alarmingly loud, his hands no longer clutching his heaving chest, but lying limply at his sides. Clara was beside him with an agility she did not realize she possessed, and she pressed her hands to his chest as if the mere pressure of them could calm the war which was raging within. She shouted his address, repeated the words heart attack countless times, her voice unrecognizable in panic. His heart was angry and desperate, beating with a fervidity that made her sick to her stomach. She watched him through tears, his breathing erratic and ragged, painful on her ears. He mouthed her name over and over, unrelentingly capturing her attention with each unuttered syllable.

“I’m here, Malcolm, right here,” Clara whispered tenderly, brushing a hand along one of his thin cheeks. “Stay with me, yeah? I need you to stay with me.”

Tucker tried. He fought _for_ her,because she willed him to, but the pain in his upper body was excruciating. He labored to focus on her, the way she kept talking nonsense about Glasgow, and having Eddie draw him a picture of their travels with his new art kit. He wanted to tell her he loved her more than anything, more than life, more than anyone ever would, but he couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me, please,” Clara begged, tracing soft circles on his cheek. “I love you, Malcolm Dougan Tucker, I love you so, so so much.”

She thought she saw a moment of clarity in his eyes, a brief glimmer that everything was leveling out, that the shattered coffee cup around them was going to reverse, come together once again. But like all moments, it didn’t last, and that small spark of recognition dissipated when his eyes rolled back, and closed. 

Clara called to him, leaned close to his mouth to feel for his breath, hoping for the familiar warmth of air upon her cheek. Nothing came from his lips. Instinctually, blindly, she pressed her mouth to his and exhaled at one second intervals, pinching his nose and tilting his chin, as she had learned countless times for when she became a nanny. With precision she drove the heels of her hands into his chest, not caring about pain or bruises or the sound of her sobs as she counted voicelessly to thirty. She repeated this numbly, deafly, the man she had grown to love unresponsive to her pleas.

“Malcolm, _please_!”

Clara did not hear the medics when they knocked, nor did she hear them as they breached the front door. Heavy footed and breathing hard they came armed with medical equipment that she knew little about. It took the largest of the three of them to pull her away from Malcolm, and he attempted to explain the need for her to give them room. But Clara wanted nothing more than to bury herself in Malcolm’s embrace, to return to last night, to the moments when they openly confess their longings and adorations.

She watched as they fought to revive him. She was on the floor, her limbs curled in on herself, her back pressed uncomfortably against the cabinets beneath his sink. He looked so fragile, so broken, a tangle of long limbs bent in unnatural positions. The paramedics were rough with him in their determination to start his heart, and she almost chastised them to be more careful, but what did it matter?

They cut his shirt away and hurriedly applied solid gel electrodes to his thin chest, one below his right collarbone and the other over the apex of his heart. When the defibrillator was charged and they were cleared, they sent an electric pulse through his body.

Clara held her breath, tears no longer falling from her eyes. Malcolm’s body convulsed, but they waited for a second charge. Three more times they did this, and Clara thought her own heart stopped beating in hopeful anticipation. It looked painful, the way his chest thrust towards their brow-creased faces, the angle his head rolled when gravity forced his shoulders down. Then, the paramedic with a hand firmly wrapped around one of Tucker’s wiry wrists gave a silent signal, but Clara barely took notice. She was more focused on the faint rise and fall of Malcolm’s chest.

\--

The hospital wing smelt of spilt chemicals and latex, and sounded like an amusement park without the laughter. She glanced up through the sliding glass doors of the small room as doctors and nurses bustled by, their work long done as four in the evening neared. Clara blinked slowly.

_“We are together, I have to be with him, please,” she had begged when two nurses blocked her from the room, keeping her at arms-length as they backed her away from the sliding glass doors. “What if he wakes before anyone comes?” she had pleaded. “What if he wakes and thinks he is alone?”_

_“Only family is permitted,” one of the nurses had informed her, apologetic but firm._

_“Please, I have to.”_

_“Clara Oswald?”_

_She turned quickly at the voice, the unfamiliar Irish lilt belonging to a tall, curly haired doctor. He had a pleasant, wise look about him, but he wasn’t a face that she knew._

_“Yes,” she breathed, hopefully expectant at the fact that he knew who she was._

_“Dr. Jackman,” Tom introduced himself, gesturing at the nurses. “Let her through.”_

The memory flashed behind her eyes, one of the many images which played out in her thoughts whenever she drifted too far from the current moment. That was four hours ago. They had only just emerged from Tucker’s side, his condition stable without observation for the first time since he was admitted.

The only sound in the room was the steady pulse of the heart monitor, which taunted her with every passing second. The medications kept it from venturing too far ahead of itself, but the doctor was in routinely to ensure that his heart stayed that way. She wasn’t family, so they told her nothing, but Anne was on her way from Glasgow, and would hopefully be there soon.

Clara slid her chair closer to Malcolm’s bedside and took the wiry hand free of tubes and tape in hers, tracing the protruding veins with delicate care. When she looked over his face, she couldn’t help but think of people who were taken to saying, “They could have been sleeping,” at funeral services. He _was_ sleeping, and the cusp of death never looked a better fit. There was nothing peaceful about the gaunt shadows of his cheeks, the deep furrows of his brow, the uncharacteristically pale hue of his skin. She rested her head on the bed, and closed her eyes.

_“Oh, look at this!” Clara had gasped, patting her hand excitedly against Malcolm’s shoulder. “Look!”_

_“If you show it to me, I fuckin’ will,” he grinned, snatching the brochure. “What, this?”_

_“Yes, that,” she pointed, her finger punching at the focal image of the page._

_“You want to ride horses?”_

_“I’ve never ridden a horse before, and they have tours you can go on.”_

_“I’m not fuckin’ wearing one of those helmets, they all look like they were dropped repeatedly as kids.”_

_“You’re ridiculous,” Clara laughed, “and it says that you have to.”_

_“I can read, sweetheart.”_

_“Can you?” She chided._

_He grunted, tossing the pamphlet back at her._

_“Do you know anything about horses, Malcolm?”_

_“Only that a baby one is called a foal,” he sighed, picking up the essay he was looking over, “and I’m going to look like a right twat wearing a helmet riding them.”_

After another half hour of waiting Clara had to move, had to take a moment away from the chaotic calm of the room. She walked backwards from the bedside, her eyes flittering between the heart monitor and Malcolm’s face, fearing that something would happen the instant she drew away.

“You’re overreacting, Oswald,” she sighed, inhaling deeply before turning, reaching for the sliding glass doors handle.

“Clara?” Clara stopped cold, the faint, gruff voice an unexpected symphony to her ears.

It took every ounce of restraint to keep from throwing herself at him, and when she felt composed enough, she reached out and brushed a hand along his cheek. He closed his eyes at the touch, exhaling stiffly. He was unusually warm, but she supposed that was the medication.

“I’m right here, Malcolm,” she whispered soothingly, stroking her thumb along his skin. “I should get the doctor, he’ll want to know you’re up.”

Malcolm didn’t respond, only opened his eyes tiredly and held her gaze. They were dull and inexpressive, a sharp contrast to the way he could usually communicate with nothing more than a glance, or lingering stare. She couldn’t help the shudder which rattled the semblance of composure she mustered.

“Anne should be here soon,” she continued, busying her hands by holding his. “Doctor Jackman contacted her once you were admitted.”

“I don’t remember…”

“Shhhh, that’s fine, that’s fine, it’s okay now.”

“I don’t remember,” he kept saying, quieter and quieter until she could no longer hear the words on his lips.

\--    

When Anne arrived it was six, and the doctors and nurses had all done their routine and somewhat invasive check-up, shining lights and moving limbs when all Malcolm wanted to do was sleep. He remained silent during the entire process, but the weariness of it all was evident in the way he only barely complied. Jackman called him an ass a few times, which brought a semblance of a smile to Tucker’s lips, but it was the only lively thing he did up to that point.

“Eddie and Lucy are with Mum,” Anne let him know, fretting with the corner of his pillow. “I couldn’t reach William, or else Mum would be here, too.”

“Its fine,” Malcolm told her, plainly.

“Is it, Malcolm?”

“Aye.”

Anne sighed, defeated, and gestured for Clara to meet her in the hall. Their focus lingered on Malcolm for a few moments before either really took the first steps to leaving the room, but once they were outside, Anne threw her arms around Clara.

“Thank you,” she hugged her fiercely, uncaring of the slight congestion it caused in the walkway. “Dr. Jackman said he wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for you.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Clara hugged her back. Both of them needed this, the feeling of being surrounded, and safe, and warm. She wondered for a moment if Malcolm felt safety here, or if he felt deprived of it. “I was so scared, I just...”

“I know,” Anne nodded, releasing her after a few moments. “I was there when Malc had his first one. But then, he didn’t…”

“Right,” Clara said quickly, not wishing to relive it if she could help. “What happens now?”

“Jackman is in talks about implanting a cardioverter-defibrillator,” she grimaced.  

“Oh,” was all Clara could manage. They observed as Malcolm turned slightly, fussing a moment with the IV on his hand. She could almost hear his disgruntled sigh as he nodded off. “Would you mind if I stayed, too?”

“Overnight, you mean?”

“Yes,” Clara exhaled slowly, deliberately. “I have to administer a final tomorrow afternoon, and I can’t stand the thought of leaving right now, I have to-”

Anne smiled sadly and pulled her in for another tight embrace. “I would never say no, Clara.”

\--

Clara was pacing in her socks, her hair done up in a messy bun as sleep evaded her. Jamie had been texting her for the past hour, asking for updates as he tried to get out of the office before midnight broke. They were all anxious, but there was nothing that could be done. It was nearing eleven the next time Malcolm woke.  

“You’ll walk a hole in the floor.”

“Malcolm,” Clara smiled when their eyes met, and he softened when she sat beside him in her chair.

“I’m sorry, Clara, I-”

“Are you apologizing to me for having a heart attack?”

“Don’t look at me like that, please,” he groaned, shaking his head. “I’m fuckin’ apologizing because you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Deal with what, exactly?”

“Your boyfriend havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack in the kitchen,” he started, his voice getting louder when she began to protest, “ _before_ you had your morning coffee.”

“You are something else, you know that?” Clara squeezed his hand, her heart breaking a little more when he tried to do the same.

“Of course.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, holding hands, thinking and un-thinking of all the words they didn’t want to say.

“You should go,” Malcolm barely spoke, shifting slightly as his eyes threatened to close.

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s late, and you have to be on the road early.”

“I was thinking about canceling the final.”

“You know you can’t do that.”

“I know.”

“Right.”

“I’ll leave in the morning,” she told him gently, shifting closer to the bed. “I don’t want to leave you, Malcolm, not right now.”

Clara was calm until she met his gaze, his eyes shining and red rimmed, still dim, but with a greater focus than those hours before. Their little world was cracking and splintering around them, and there was no greater evidence than the finality in the grim expression he wore.       

“I don’t want to leave you, either,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I love you, Clara.”  

“I love you too, Malcolm,” she whispered, adoration and a silent plea in her voice, her tears, and the pressure of her hand around his.

\--         

December 15th 2014

Clara was sitting at the front of her lecture hall, glancing between her students and the clock when she felt her phone vibrating in her jacket pocket. Hastily, she apologized to the class and rushed from the room, her eyes widening and heart seizing at the name on the caller ID.

“Malcolm?”

She could hear something on the other line, but it was muffled and crackling, and unpleasant on the ears.

“Malc-”

“Clara…”

She stopped breathing.

“Anne?”

“Nothing could be done,” she whimpered, her broken sobbing tangible, striking at the soul of her, “Malcolm, he was, and I coul- I’m so sorry...”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please stick with me for the last chapter - everything I've done in this story has a larger purpose, I promise.


	16. April 21st 2015

_“My desire to live is as intense as ever, and though my heart is broken, hearts are made to be broken.” – Oscar Wilde_

April 21st 2015

Clara stretched her limbs stiffly, the past few hours long drawn and quiet, save for the low murmur of the radio and the passing cars around her. The drive to Glasgow was a painful lesson in memories, and she did her best to block out that which she could as the day passed on.

She shuffled her way through the relatively crowded shop, the scent of ground coffee and fresh pastries giving the otherwise cold interior of the café an encompassing warmth. The rain was persistent through most of the afternoon, slanting against the broad windows beside the booth she eventually settled in. 

There was a haze around her head, an automatic, robotic method to her movements as she sipped on her coffee - a dash of cream and two sugars, better taken with the biscuit she still split to share. Sometimes she would catch herself watching the seconds hand on a clock, each brief clip of its reach a reminder that yes, time does indeed press on. _And that is the hardest part of life,_ she thought coldly, _it doesn’t take the time for you to gather yourself and your belongings, it just presses on, and you can only hold on to a few things before you have to go with it._

The sound of shattering glass and apologies woke Clara from her thoughts, her knuckles white with tension as she grasped her own mug a little tighter. She breathed slowly, evenly, trying to coax her heart into the same steady rhythm.

Glasgow was a painful lesson in memories.

Four months and six days passed on, pressed on, compressed itself into memories and photographs, shakily written postcards titled to the deceased and sent to the living. When Clara had returned to Sherwood Street a little over four weeks ago she ignored their presence in her mailbox. She sifted through letters and magazines and bills and left them. Perhaps when she was stronger, more willing, she would look over the memories they would never truly share, but that was for another time. Another day.

This day.

April 21st.

 

 

 

Clara Oswald

68 Sherwood Street

Reading RG30 1LF

18th January, 2015

Lajactico, Italy

_Malcolm,_

_Danny told me when he was serving with his platoon, if they lost someone in combat they would allot five minutes each night to grieve and remember. That was all they could give, or else they would be consumed by the devastation around them. I know this is different, but I’m sure it feels the same. It certainly feels the same as before._

_I decided to travel, the way we said we would, and I’m sending you these ridiculous postcards the way you said I should. While I will always think of you far more than I can express, writing these will be our five minutes. I’ve only been here two days and Italy is everything we thought it would be. Beautiful, in warm shades and earth tones, a part of the landscape as much as it is an unnatural thing. You would have been entertained by the man who sold me bread this morning – he had some choice words for an American couple, and his expressions were something to see. I learned that he is utterly smitten with the florist across from his bakery. They would be an uncommon but wonderful pair. Much like we were, weren’t we? Out of room for now, but I have to say: riding a horse in a helmet does, in fact, make you look like a twat._

_Ti amo e mi manchi,_

_Clara_

She flipped through each one, her eyes greeted by the snow laden mountains of Grimentz – _jag älskar dig och saknar dig_ – the impressive expanse of the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin _– ich liebe dich und vermisse dich –_ the canals and sweeping architecture of the Golden Age in Amsterdam – _ik hou van jou en mis jou_ – the white chalk cliffs of Ault Onival – _je t'aime et tu me manques beaucoup_ –the awe-inspiring La Sagrada Família Basílica in Barcelona – _te amo y te extraño._ Each postcard littered with anecdotes and confessions scrawled in small writing so as to give enough room for everything she wanted to share. Clara remembered each evening she spent writing them, of the swelling emptiness she felt as she penned each word, drawing her in, closer to te-

“Are you alright, dear?”

Clara started, realizing that she was in fact crying none-too privately over her coffee, the postcards on display across the surface of the table.

“Yes, fine, sorry,” she murmured, brushing the picturesque scenes into a muddled pile, finally glancing up at the woman. She was watching her with crystal blue eyes, her cheekbones framing her face with a striking elegance, her brunette hair curled and done up neatly. Her attire wasn’t commonplace – the pristine purple wool and sharp pressed white button up rather old fashioned compared to her own red blouse and black slacks – but Clara was not one for judging.

“You seem out of sorts,” the woman answered, sitting across from her without invitation. She looked expectant and entirely at ease, as if there was familiarity between them that Clara was entirely oblivious to. “What seems to be the matter?”

“I don’t know that I want to talk about it.”

“I think you do.”

“Excuse me?” Clara looked incredulous, and was preparing to gather her things and leave when the woman reached out, her crimson painted fingers brushing ever so slightly over the back of Clara’s hand.

Everything seemed to slow, to settle into an even pace of nonexistence, and for the briefest of moments Clara thought she was aware of the world spinning beneath her feet. She looked quickly into those sky-blue eyes and an ebb of soothing warmth enveloped her mind, and there was that expectant look on the woman’s face again. She couldn’t explain precisely what occurred, but she found herself trusting of the slow, sympathetic grin which pulled and contorted the woman’s lips.

“I lost someone,” she whispered, relaxing back into the booth with a soft thump.

“Someone you loved,” the Scotswoman nodded.

“Yes, someone I loved.”

 “An accident?”

“Sudden cardiac arrest,” Clara winced, those words unspoken since the first time she heard them, “caused by ventricular fibrillation.”

_“Anne?”_

_“Nothing could be done,” she whimpered, her broken sobbing tangible, striking at the soul of her, “Malcolm, he was, and I coul- I’m so sorry...”_

_“Sorry, for what? Anne, pleas-”_

_“Malcolm, he, we were talking when he, and the heart monitor just blanked, and I called for the doctor,” Clara listened stricken as Anne sobbed, trying for some ounce of composure, “Clara they tried, god they tried...”_

_Clara clutched the phone to her chest, her back hitting the wall beside the door to the lecture hall before she slid to the floor, all of the repressed emotions from the previous night overcoming her. She couldn’t keep quiet, the tears staining her cheeks and her cries echoing through the hall._

“Too much for the heart to handle,” the woman sighed, “that’s the shame of only having one, isn’t it?”

“He didn’t only have one,” _he had mine, too_. Clara regretted the words, but couldn’t keep her mind from completing the thought _._

She took a long and calculated sip of her coffee, taking the opportunity to watch the woman over the rim of her mug. She was speaking quietly to herself, most of which Clara could not make out for herself, but when she spoke a little louder and clearer towards the tail end of her comments, Clara couldn’t help but sigh.

“Time can’t be rewritten.”

The woman glanced at her, a flash of something akin to mischief lighting her eyes before they tamed, matching the pursed state of her lips. “No, of course not.”

They sat in tense silence before Clara’s eyes sought the clock, the hour half past eleven, the ticking hand dragging across the stark white face, beckoning her on.

“It’s been, _something_ , I suppose,” she placed the postcards carefully in her bag and shrugged it on her shoulders, sliding from the booth with as much finality as she could muster. “Goodby-”

“It is _so_ brave to love someone that death can touch,” the woman interrupted, reaching into her coat pocket and withdrawing an impossibly wide notepad and pen.

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

Clara’s brow furrowed at the woman’s replying snort, and leaned forward ever so slightly to get a better glimpse of what she was writing. Crimson lips parted and she blew across the surface, tore the page, and offered it to her. “Here you are, my dear, just what you need.”

“I-, uhm,” Clara glanced between the paper and the sharply focused, glimmering eyes of the lady before clearing her throat, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. This is a number to a-”

“Helpline,” the woman’s grin grew deeper, and slightly manic if Clara were entirely honest with herself, but she was flapping the paper suggestively, as if enticing Clara with something beyond her grasp. “The best helpline in the Universe.”

\--

The graveyard was appropriately all shades of grey and black, the darkness of the sky mingling in the dropping rain, falling swiftly and swimming amongst the living and deceased. Clara tread carefully along the rows of memorials and flowers, her eyes sweeping over the epitaphs of those long and newly gone, _beloved_ and _loving_ and _devoted_ common words chiseled smoothly into the stone. Malcolm wouldn’t have wanted anything quite so traditional, and in such fashion, did not receive it.

_Malcolm Dougan Tucker_

_April 21 st 1958_

_December 15 th 2014_

“Happy birthday, Malcolm,” Clara whispered over the patter of rain on the wet stone, her fingers tracing his name. She knelt down and placed the bundle of postcards at the foot of the headstone, the ink already bleeding into the moist grass. She couldn’t help the smile which threatened her somber eyes as the weather worn plaque by her feet brought forth a fond memory.

_“I just, I brought this, but you don’t have to leave it here,” Ollie explained, hands fidgeting through the air and his slick combed hair as Clara looked over the granite black and engraved plaque he offered her. She could feel his eyes and the nervous regret coming off of him in waves._

_“I’m not sure I want to know precisely why you chose this wording,” she asked without asking, smoothing her palm across the surface._

_“His words, actually,” Ollie laughed shakily, blinking rapidly._

_“Yes, he was a cunt,” Clara read quietly, so as to avoid any angry glances from those around them, “but he was a fucking dignified cunt.”_

_“I thought he would have some difficulty getting a mason to work that out for him,” he smiled tightly when Clara did, stammering slightly. “This is the sort of thing, well, we would sort of have this kind of dialogue…between us…but it’s really al-”_

_“Thank you, Ollie, really.”_

She exhaled slowly and glanced up at Anne, who was watching her from afar. Lucy was consoling a crying Eddie, who was refusing to let anyone but him hold the flowers they picked fresh from their grandmother’s garden. Clara requested a few moments alone, and Anne ushered her children away to give them to her. Four months came and went and each of them mourned in their own way, apart or together, face to face or through whatever technological means could bridge the distance between them. They all stayed in Denise’s home after the funeral, which was attended by his small family and a few former colleagues from Number 10.

Jamie was heartbreaking.       

“It took me running away to realize what it was I was truly running from,” she sighed, her bangs damp on her forehead as she rested her head against the cold stone, “but I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t continue on as if your de-…as if it didn’t mean anything to me. Anne understood, she always understood.

“You were right, you know? Life is too short to not pursue it with fervidity. I suppose I was running from that. There are opportunities across Europe, and I could always teach again. I’m going to be fine, I think. I do, I think…”

Clara shivered under the dome of her umbrella, the wind testing her balance, sending her to her feet. She thought back on it all, the first time she thought she loved him, and the moment she understood that she did. In hindsight, she realized that he must have known he was loving her under borrowed time, but it was a chance anew that he never thought he would be afforded.   

“Second chances are rare, aren’t they?” The tears fell freely from her eyes, mingling with the rain and ink and memories all around her. “Thank you for seeing me as yours, Malcolm. Even if it was only for a short while.”

\--

That night, Clara retired to the spare bedroom in Denise’s home after hours of conversation and tea, Eddie curling into her lap and clutching at the scarf Malcolm gave her as a spur of the moment gift. Anne had been running her fingers through Lucy’s hair, who had fallen asleep against her shoulder as the last hours of the night turned into the wee hours of the morning.  

She placed her novel on the nightstand and stretched, reaching for the stars through the ceiling of the small room, the warm air from the space heater enveloping her in a welcome embrace. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, but the hours loomed before her, taunting her with rest before giving her a thought to keep it at bay.

_“Malcolm, would you mind helping me?”_

_“What with, sweetheart?” His voice was gravely and deep, and the way his tone softened on his favorite term of endearment made her smile._

_“Back of my dress.”_

_“Course, love.”_

_Clara closed her eyes as he smoothed his hands along her skin, soft touches and an admiring hum in his throat. He zipped her dress slowly, gently kissing the expanse of her neck available to him. When he finished with her dress she leaned into him and he brought his lips to hers. They were often caught up in one another this way, simple gestures becoming expressions of love, and it were these private moments that they both loved best._

_“Thank you,” she murmured, turning in his arms and smoothing her hands along his shoulders._

_“Anything for you, Clara.”_

Clara swiped at her eyes angrily and threw the covers from around her. She paced the floor as quietly as possible, focusing on her breathing. In through the nose, 1…2…3…4….out through the mouth, 5…6…7…8…She repeated this as was her routine on particularly bad nights, and decided that perhaps a walk was in order to clear her mind.

With a sharp tug she pulled her jacket from the bed post, the swift motion disturbing a piece of paper she had long forgotten was in her pocket. She watched it waft to the floor, twisting and flipping through space until it came to rest at her feet.    

She stooped low to retrieve it, the numbers scrawled in looping writing, and she felt almost as if the blue eyes of the woman were watching her even now. She crumpled the paper into a ball, turning her wrist to toss it into a bin, but there was a deep rooted curiosity that kept her from following through. Digging her phone from her coat pocket, she laid back in the bed, dialing the number with careful precision and closing her eyes.

It rang once...

…twice…

…the third time it rang she glanced at the clock.

3:30 a.m…

…on the fourth ring she brought the phone from her ear, finger ghosting over to end the call when she heard faint breathing on the other line. She waited for a moment, eyes wide in anticipation, but for what she wasn’t entirely sure.

Clara waited, sitting up in bed, when the voice of a young Englishman hesitantly broke the silence.

“ _Hello_?”

“Ah, yes, hello,” Clara whispered, truly not expecting anyone to have been on the other line. “Hello.”

“ _Sorry, where did you get this number?_ ”

“A woman, a woman in a shop,” Clara sighed. “She said it was a helpline, of sorts, I suppose.”

“ _A helpline?_ ”

“Best in the universe, apparently. A bit egotistical, don’t you think?”

“ _Look, this isn’t_ ,” she heard _him_ sigh, a beat passing before he spoke once more, “ _how can I help you?_ ”

“I, I don’t really know,” she admitted, biting on her lower lip. She didn’t want to talk, not really. She just wanted someone to be there. “I just wanted to see if someone would be there, I suppose.”

“ _Well…what were you doing before you called?_ ”

“Reading,” she reached for her book, “just reading.”

“ _Keep reading,_ ” she heard him say, his voice softer, “ _and I’ll just, be here._ ” 

“No, that’s ridiculous,” Clara laughed, though admittedly it was somewhat comforting for the man to have offered such a thing.

“ _Not ridiculous, no,_ ” he answered, “ _simply an exercise for someone who must have something on their mind that they don’t want there. Know the feeling. Just, pick up where you left off._ ”

Clara shook her head, but realized that she was genuinely smiling for the first time in a long, long while. She leafed through the book until she found her favorite passage, and read about the protagonist of the tale finding the courage he needed to begin anew from an unsuspected source. She exhaled slowly as she turned the page and read the final lines of this chapter, “Run you clever boy, and remember.”

“ _What did you say?_ ”

“Oi, no need to shout,” she recoiled from the phone, his alarmed and disbelieving tone surprising to hear. “Run you clever boy, and remember? It’s just the line, it’s in the bo-”

Clara gasped at the sudden impact of a rock upon her window, the line on the other end of the call dead. She leapt from the bed and rushed over, cautiously peering around the decorative molding when another thud sounded from the outside. There, in the Tucker’s garden was a man, seemingly of her own age, dressed in dark robes with sweeping brown hair and an expressive face, illuminated by the lights of the patio.

He waved when he saw her, and with a trembling hand Clara opened the window in time to hear him clearer.

“Clara, Clara Oswald!”  

“Yes?”  

“Do you remember me?”

She watched him, all gestures and dancing from one foot to the next, his eyes wide and hopeful anticipation on his face.  

“No,” she admitted, leaning further out of the frame. “Should I? Who are you?”

“The Doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the dialogue at the end of the chapter is directly from Doctor Who, The Bells of St. John. There are also influences of Joyce's, The Dead, present in this chapter. 
> 
> A massive thank you to all of you for reading this story - it's been a long time coming for the end, but I hope that it was worth the journey to get here. Please review/comment as you see fit, I am always interested in hearing what you all have to say!
> 
> If you are interested/curious/in denial, the following two chapters provide an alternate ending to Made to be Broken.


	17. December 14th 2014: Alternate Ending - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter is the same as the fifteenth, but the ending will be a lead in to the final installment of this story.

“Coffee,” Malcolm declared vaguely, peering at her above his glasses.

He and Clara were in his study, sitting around his desk as they went above their separate business. Malcolm had been busy scribbling notes in the margins of an already annotated final exam, and Clara was multi-tasking, her attention divided between finishing up preparations for her course’s final tomorrow afternoon, and the plethora of travel brochures she printed from online. There were Post-It Notes covering the desk, restaurant and museum addresses scribbled on each.

“Are you offering?” Clara responded with a playful arch of her eyebrows. She only looked over the edge of the book she was reading when he didn’t reply. “What’s wrong?”

“Felt a bit off, all of a sudden,” he confessed uneasily, calmly removing his frames from around his ears. He hadn’t felt well when he woke that morning, either, but that moment in particular was... He smiled quickly so as to dismiss the concerned look she shot him. “Probably nothing.”

“ _’Probably’_ is not a convincing word,” she warned, eyeing him with scrutiny.

“You cooked dinner last night, yeah?”

“Yes?”

Malcolm stood and walked around his desk, cupping her face gently and pressing his lips to her forehead. “That must be it, then. Spoon of sugar and a dash of cream?”

“Malcolm,” she pressed, frowning.

“My appointment is,” he paused and glanced at his watch. 9:32 a.m. “in an hour. I’ll mention it when I go in.”

“Okay,” she nodded, uncertainty still in her voice. This wasn’t the first time in the past few weeks that Malcolm confided in her about a change in how he felt. They both grew accustomed to waiting on the phone to hear from Dr. Jackman on how to proceed. Aspirin was always the answer, and after a lie down he would be fine.

Malcolm leaned down further and kissed her cheek, earning an affectionate smile before he strode off towards the kitchen, purpose driving the pace of his steps.

A few more Post-Its and a long exhale later and Clara perked up, certain that she heard her name coming from down the hall.

 “Yes?” 

There was a shuffle and silence, followed seconds later by the sound of shattering glass upon hardwood flooring

“Malcolm?” Clara called, leaping to her feet and quickening her pace to a sprint when no reply came. The closer she came to the kitchen the more she yearned for the previous, comfortable silence that kept them safe from the reality of the moment.

“ _Clara_ ,” Malcolm was breathless, leaning heavily upon the counter as he grasped his chest. He was panting and sweating, his face contorted in a deep grimace. The shattered glass at his feet was everywhere, and she trembled when she recognized what was happening. All of the evidence was there, it was always there... “ _Clara_.”

“Aspirin, Malcolm, where do you keep it?” Clara rushed towards the cabinet, but he grabbed at her shoulder and gestured towards the open bottle on the counter. “Did you take some?”

“Call an ambulance,” he managed after a curt nod, his knees bending impossibly as gravity defied his will to stay upright. Her fingers were clumsy on the keypad of her phone, her hands wild with tremors as a dispatcher answered on the other line.

“Yes, I need an ambulance at – Malcolm!” 

The impact of his body on the floor was alarmingly loud, his hands no longer clutching his heaving chest, but lying limply at his sides. Clara was beside him with an agility she did not realize she possessed, and she pressed her hands to his chest as if the mere pressure of them could calm the war which was raging within. She shouted his address, repeated the words heart attack countless times, her voice unrecognizable in panic. His heart was angry and desperate, beating with a fervidity that made her sick to her stomach. She watched him through tears, his breathing erratic and ragged, painful on her ears. He mouthed her name over and over, unrelentingly capturing her attention with each unuttered syllable.

“I’m here, Malcolm, right here,” Clara whispered tenderly, brushing a hand along one of his thin cheeks. “Stay with me, yeah? I need you to stay with me.”

Tucker tried. He fought _for_ her,because she willed him to, but the pain in his upper body was excruciating. He labored to focus on her, the way she kept talking nonsense about Glasgow, and having Eddie draw him a picture of their travels with his new art kit. He wanted to tell her he loved her more than anything, more than life, more than anyone ever would, but he couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me, please,” Clara begged, tracing soft circles on his cheek. “I love you, Malcolm Dougan Tucker, I love you so, so so much.”

She thought she saw a moment of clarity in his eyes, a brief glimmer that everything was leveling out, that the shattered coffee cup around them was going to reverse, come together once again. But like all moments, it didn’t last, and that small spark of recognition dissipated when his eyes rolled back, and closed. 

Clara called to him, leaned close to his mouth to feel for his breath, hoping for the familiar warmth of air upon her cheek. Nothing came from his lips. Instinctually, blindly, she pressed her mouth to his and exhaled at one second intervals, pinching his nose and tilting his chin, as she had learned countless times for when she became a nanny. With precision she drove the heels of her hands into his chest, not caring about pain or bruises or the sound of her sobs as she counted voicelessly to thirty. She repeated this numbly, deafly, the man she had grown to love unresponsive to her pleas.

“Malcolm, _please_!”

Clara did not hear the medics when they knocked, nor did she hear them as they breached the front door. Heavy footed and breathing hard they came armed with medical equipment that she knew little about. It took the largest of the three of them to pull her away from Malcolm, and he attempted to explain the need for her to give them room. But Clara wanted nothing more than to bury herself in Malcolm’s embrace, to return to last night, to the moments when they openly confess their longings and adorations.

She watched as they fought to revive him. She was on the floor, her limbs curled in on herself, her back pressed uncomfortably against the cabinets beneath his sink. He looked so fragile, so broken, a tangle of long limbs bent in unnatural positions. The paramedics were rough with him in their determination to start his heart, and she almost chastised them to be more careful, but what did it matter?

They cut his shirt away and hurriedly applied solid gel electrodes to his thin chest, one below his right collarbone and the other over the apex of his heart. When the defibrillator was charged and they were cleared, they sent an electric pulse through his body.

Clara held her breath, tears no longer falling from her eyes. Malcolm’s body convulsed, but they waited for a second charge. Three more times they did this, and Clara thought her own heart stopped beating in hopeful anticipation. It looked painful, the way his chest thrust towards their brow-creased faces, the angle his head rolled when gravity forced his shoulders down. Then, the paramedic with a hand firmly wrapped around one of Tucker’s wiry wrists gave a silent signal, but Clara barely took notice. She was more focused on the faint rise and fall of Malcolm’s chest.

\--

The hospital wing smelt of spilt chemicals and latex, and sounded like an amusement park without the laughter. She glanced up through the sliding glass doors of the small room as doctors and nurses bustled by, their work long done as four in the evening neared. Clara blinked slowly.

_“We are together, I have to be with him, please,” she had begged when two nurses blocked her from the room, keeping her at arms-length as they backed her away from the sliding glass doors. “What if he wakes before anyone comes?” she had pleaded. “What if he wakes and thinks he is alone?”_

_“Only family is permitted,” one of the nurses had informed her, apologetic but firm._

_“Please, I have to.”_

_“Clara Oswald?”_

_She turned quickly at the voice, the unfamiliar Irish lilt belonging to a tall, curly haired doctor. He had a pleasant, wise look about him, but he wasn’t a face that she knew._

_“Yes,” she breathed, hopefully expectant at the fact that he knew who she was._

_“Dr. Jackman,” Tom introduced himself, gesturing at the nurses. “Let her through.”_

The memory flashed behind her eyes, one of the many images which played out in her thoughts whenever she drifted too far from the current moment. That was four hours ago. They had only just emerged from Tucker’s side, his condition stable without observation for the first time since he was admitted.

The only sound in the room was the steady pulse of the heart monitor, which taunted her with every passing second. The medications kept it from venturing too far ahead of itself, but the doctor was in routinely to ensure that his heart stayed that way. She wasn’t family, so they told her nothing, but Anne was on her way from Glasgow, and would hopefully be there soon.

Clara slid her chair closer to Malcolm’s bedside and took the wiry hand free of tubes and tape in hers, tracing the protruding veins with delicate care. When she looked over his face, she couldn’t help but think of people who were taken to saying, “They could have been sleeping,” at funeral services. He _was_ sleeping, and the cusp of death never looked a better fit. There was nothing peaceful about the gaunt shadows of his cheeks, the deep furrows of his brow, the uncharacteristically pale hue of his skin. She rested her head on the bed, and closed her eyes.

_“Oh, look at this!” Clara had gasped, patting her hand excitedly against Malcolm’s shoulder. “Look!”_

_“If you show it to me, I fuckin’ will,” he grinned, snatching the brochure. “What, this?”_

_“Yes, that,” she pointed, her finger punching at the focal image of the page._

_“You want to ride horses?”_

_“I’ve never ridden a horse before, and they have tours you can go on.”_

_“I’m not fuckin’ wearing one of those helmets, they all look like they were dropped repeatedly as kids.”_

_“You’re ridiculous,” Clara laughed, “and it says that you have to.”_

_“I can read, sweetheart.”_

_“Can you?” She chided._

_He grunted, tossing the pamphlet back at her._

_“Do you know anything about horses, Malcolm?”_

_“Only that a baby one is called a foal,” he sighed, picking up the essay he was looking over, “and I’m going to look like a right twat wearing a helmet riding them.”_

After another half hour of waiting Clara had to move, had to take a moment away from the chaotic calm of the room. She walked backwards from the bedside, her eyes flittering between the heart monitor and Malcolm’s face, fearing that something would happen the instant she drew away.

“You’re overreacting, Oswald,” she sighed, inhaling deeply before turning, reaching for the sliding glass doors handle.

“Clara?” Clara stopped cold, the faint, gruff voice an unexpected symphony to her ears.

It took every ounce of restraint to keep from throwing herself at him, and when she felt composed enough, she reached out and brushed a hand along his cheek. He closed his eyes at the touch, exhaling stiffly. He was unusually warm, but she supposed that was the medication.

“I’m right here, Malcolm,” she whispered soothingly, stroking her thumb along his skin. “I should get the doctor, he’ll want to know you’re up.”

Malcolm didn’t respond, only opened his eyes tiredly and held her gaze. They were dull and unexpressive, a sharp contrast to the way he could usually communicate with nothing more than glance, or lingering stare. She couldn’t help the shudder which rattled the semblance of composure she mustered.

“Anne should be here soon,” she continued, busying her hands by holding his. “Doctor Jackman contacted her once you were admitted.”

“I don’t remember…”

“Shhhh, that’s fine, that’s fine, it’s okay now.”

“I don’t remember,” he kept saying, quieter and quieter until she could no longer hear the words on his lips.

\--   

When Anne arrived it was six, and the doctors and nurses had all done their routine and somewhat invasive check-up, shining lights and moving limbs when all Malcolm wanted to do was sleep. He remained silent during the entire process, but the weariness of it all was evident in the way he only barely complied. Jackman called him an ass a few times, which brought a semblance of a smile to Tucker’s lips, but it was the only lively thing he did up to that point.

“Eddie and Lucy are with Mum,” Anne let him know, fretting with the corner of his pillow. “I couldn’t reach William, or else Mum would be here, too.”

“Its fine,” Malcolm told her, plainly.

“Is it, Malcolm?”

“Aye.”

Anne sighed, defeated, and gestured for Clara to meet her in the hall. Their focus lingered on Malcolm for a few moments before either really took the first steps to leaving the room, but once they were outside, Anne threw her arms around Clara.

“Thank you,” she hugged her fiercely, uncaring of the slight congestion it caused in the walkway. “Dr. Jackman said he wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for you.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Clara hugged her back. Both of them needed this, the feeling of being surrounded, and safe, and warm. She wondered for a moment if Malcolm felt safety here, or if he felt deprived of it. “I was so scared, I just...”

“I know,” Anne nodded, releasing her after a few moments. “I was there when Malc had his first one. But then, he didn’t…”

“Right,” Clara said quickly, not wishing to relive it if she could help. “What happens now?”

“Jackman is in talks about implanting a cardioverter-defibrillator,” she grimaced. 

“Oh,” was all Clara could manage. They observed as Malcolm turned slightly, fussing a moment with the IV on his hand. She could almost hear his disgruntled sigh as he nodded off. “Would you mind if I stayed, too?”

“Overnight, you mean?”

“Yes,” Clara exhaled slowly, deliberately. “I have to administer a final tomorrow afternoon, and I can’t stand the thought of leaving right now, I have to-”

Anne smiled sadly and pulled her in for another tight embrace. “I would never say no, Clara.”

\--

Clara was pacing in her socks, her hair done up in a messy bun as sleep evaded her. Jamie had been texting her for the past hour, asking for updates as he tried to get out of the office before midnight broke. They were all anxious, but there was nothing that could be done. It was nearing eleven the next time Malcolm woke. 

“You’ll walk a hole in the floor.”

“Malcolm,” Clara smiled when their eyes met, and he softened when she sat beside him in her chair.

“I’m sorry, Clara, I-”

“Are you apologizing to me for having a heart attack?”

“Don’t look at me like that, please,” he groaned, shaking his head. “I’m fuckin’ apologizing because you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Deal with what, exactly?”

“Your boyfriend havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack in the kitchen,” he started, his voice getting louder when she began to protest, “ _before_ you had your morning coffee.”

“You are something else, you know that?” Clara squeezed his hand, her heart breaking a little more when he tried to do the same.

“Of course.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, holding hands, thinking and un-thinking all the words they didn’t want to say.

“You should go,” Malcolm barely spoke, shifting slightly as his eyes threatened to close.

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s late, and you have to be on the road early.”

“I was thinking about canceling the final.”

“You know you can’t do that.”

“I know I _shouldn’t_ do that, but I most certainly _can_.”

“They’ll fire you.”

“Let them,” she told him gently, shifting closer to the bed. “I don’t want to leave you, Malcolm, not right now.”

Clara was calm until she met his gaze, his eyes shining and red rimmed, still dim, but with a greater focus than those hours before. Their little world was cracking and splintering around them, and there was no greater evidence than the misplaced finality in the grim expression he wore.      

“I don’t want to leave you, either,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I love you, Clara.” 

“I love you too,” she whispered, adoration and a silent plea in her voice, her tears, and the pressure of her hand around his. “And when you can go home, I think maybe it is time for us to just rest, you know?”

“What ab-”

“It can wait,” she did not hesitate, “whatever it is, Malcolm, it all can wait.”

He closed his eyes, the muscles in his cheeks twitching ever so slightly, suggesting the start of a smile before he rested his head back further into the pillow. Clara soothingly traced the veins of his hand as his breathing slowed.

Steady.

Slow.

Rise.

Fall…  

It was not long until he was asleep, the heart monitor beside him maintaining a steady cadence through the night. During the wee hours of morning and the early light of day Clara held his thin hand in hers, the restless night wearing on the line of her shoulders and the shadows under her eyes. Every stir, every twitch or deeper breath Malcolm had seized at Clara’s nerves; but all was still and calm.

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Fall…

She watched his chest through hooded eyes, the pulse in his hand and its affirmation in the heart monitor lulling her closer to a sleep of her own. With clarity she typed an email to her students, apologizing for the late notice, thanking them for a wonderful semester, and canceling the exam. For those who needed it, she promised to drop the lowest exam grade for the class to help boost grades. She didn’t care what came of her professorship, there were always other options for a career. They could do what they liked, so long as she could be here.

Clara shook herself awake countless times before 5 a.m. saw her resting her cheek against Malcolm’s forearm, still holding carefully to his hand.

Rise.

Fall.

Rise.

Fall.

Safe.

Here.

Safe.

Alive.    

 

 


	18. April 21st 2015: Alternate Ending – Part 2

_"We love because it's the only true adventure." Nikki Giovanni_

“Happy birthday to you,” Eddie sang excitedly, his face close to the vanilla icing of the cake, his fingerprints already decorating the side closest to him. “Happy birthday to you!”

Clara ruffled a hand through his hair, smiling adoringly. Four months had come and gone, and here they were. She looked around the room, all eyes on the head of the table, who was doing his damnedest to veil just how joyous he was for the occasion.   

“Happy birthday dear Malcolm,” she sang along, the thin hand clasped around hers tightening warmly, “happy birthday to you!”

Malcolm inhaled theatrically and leaned in towards the candles –

“You have to make a wish first, Uncle Malc!” Eddie gasped, reaching out and covering his uncle’s mouth before he could blow out the flames. “It’s the rules, right Nan?”

“That’s right,” Denise nodded knowingly, “I didn’t raise a rule breaker now, did I?”

“You at least didn’t mean to,” Anne chimed in, grinning.

“You’re lucky there are wee ears in the room,” Malcolm chided before looking at Eddie. “Alright, I’ve thought my wish. Now what?”

“Blow out the candles!”

Clara watched him inhale once more, eyes wide and expressive, and she choked on a laugh as he very much so did not blow out any of the candles on his cake. She smiled broadly as he winked at her before attempting once again, his niece and nephew laughing too as the flames flickered but ultimately did not go out.

“Uncle Malc!”

“I’m too old, I can’t do it myself,” he sighed, releasing Clara’s hand to gesture for Lucy and Eddie to come on either side of him. “Help an old man out, won’t you?”

When Clara caught Malcolm’s eye, she felt as if she were drowning in the depths of love she could see in them. Love for his niece and nephew. Love for his sister. Love for his mum. Love for her. For life. For everything that was, and everything that has yet to come. She hoped that her eyes communicated the same, with the same gravity and unfiltered radiance which shone from him.

“Look at that, chocolate cake,” Malcolm whistled, looking between Lucy and Eddie. “Who’s going to have the first piece?”  

\--

“How have you been, dear?” Denise asked Clara sweetly, spooning some potatoes onto their plates. The meal was a collaboration between Clara, Denise, and Anne, who prepped and cooked throughout the day to entertain the “birthday boy,” as Denise proudly called him.

“Really well, thank you,” Clara replied, passing the asparagus to Jamie, who was laughing encouragingly at the inappropriate joke Lucy just made.

“They haven’t given you too much grief, have they?”

“The kids? No,” she laughed, “They have been wonderful. Missing their regular teacher, but they don’t mind my substituting too much.”

“Secondary schooling must be quite different to university.”

“It is, but there is something rather adventurous about the change. I sometimes forget which Coals Hill I’m heading to, though.”

“You do that more than you’re letting on,” Malcolm interrupted between mouthfuls, washing it down with beer.

“Ah, well, it’s all muscle memory, you know. That’s how Malc-” Jamie started, only to receive a swift under-the-table-kick from Anne, who shook her head disapprovingly.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“I still can’t believe they let you go,” Anne shook her head, gritting her teeth.

“They didn’t outright fire me,” Clara shrugged, pushing her potatoes around her plate. “Just gave me a choice.”

She glanced over as Denise took her hand, giving it an affectionate pat.

“What did they say?” Lucy asked curiously, the look on her face the mirror image of her mother’s. Clara was always surprised at how much she looked like her mum already.

“They denied her request for leave this semester,” Malcolm stated flatly, his grey eyes never leaving Clara.

“I was told that I had to return for the Spring, or they would find someone to permanently fill my position,” she answered Lucy, her gaze falling onto Malcolm’s as his expression softened and he drummed a slow cadence on the table. “So I told them to start interviewing.”

_Late, December 15 th _

_The night after Malcolm’s heart attack, the waiting room was filled with what could only be described as a small clan of individuals, hoping to hear from Anne, or any source with enough information, that Malcolm was going to make a full recovery._

_Clara and Anne stayed by Malcolm’s side through the night, with the former keeping her hand in his as Anne occasionally smoothed over his brow between phone calls and conversations with Dr. Jackman and their mum. Denise was as inconsolable as they were, but she put on a strong front knowing Lucy and Eddie were just around the corner, no doubt wrought with worry themselves._

_It was nearing the afternoon, the scheduled time of Clara’s now-cancelled exam, when the room was thrown from the calm which once pervaded the air. The still hand over Clara’s suddenly tightened, signaling concern before the heart monitor testified to the irregularities newly occurring within Malcolm’s chest. Rapid beeping from the machine, the pulse beneath her fingers beating out of time to it. With Anne in the hall on the phone, Clara pressed the emergency call button and summoned a nurse, with Jackman hot on her heels just as Malcolm flat-lined._

_A few hours later Jackman entered the waiting room, an ovation greeting him as Anne, Clara, and now Jamie doted on his every word._

_“What happened?” Anne croaked, her throat raw. “Is Malcolm okay?”_

_“He’s stable,” the doctor sighed wearily, a forced smile on his face._

_“But why did he have another heart attack? What is happening?”_

_“Come, sit down.”_

_Jackman explained that the sudden cardiac arrest appeared to be caused by ventricular defibrillation, where the lower chambers of the heart contract in a rapid, uncoordinated manner, which causes the heartbeat and pulse to become out of sync. He said after they stabilized Malcolm he underwent an echocardiogram, where they mapped the scarring of his heart from the heart attacks in his past. He said that this caused disruption of the electrical impulses which signal for the chambers of the heart to contract, which led to the ventricular defibrillation._

_“Does that mean he needs a transplant?” Jamie asked, hushed after keeping his silence for the large part of the day. “If it’s scarring, how can you treat that?”_

_“We can’t do anything about the scarring, but prescribing an antiarrhythmic agent will greatly reduce his risk of it occurring again.”_

_“But last night you mentioned something about surgery?” Anne asked, wiping at her eyes._

_“Yes,” Jackman nodded slowly. “But after discussing it with other physicians we determined it best to take a medicinal route. We performed an angiogram to ensure that the heart attack wasn’t artery related, so there is no reason to operate.”_

_“What should we do now?”_

_“Well, we are prescribing Metoprolol to be taken orally twice a day.” He watched Clara as she shifted foot to foot, his face softening. “But just being there for him will be important from this point out. He’ll need someone to be there.”_

_“Of course,” Clara practically whispered, hugging her arms around herself as she felt fresh tears threatening her eyes. “That explains the rapid pulse, then. All of it. That simple, is it?”_

_“Despite it all, it is that simple.”_

 “It was that simple for you? Making that decision,” Denise asked, pulling Clara aside from the general conversation that was occurring on the other end of the table.

Malcolm and Jamie were in a heated conversation about football, and Eddie was excitedly looking between them as if there was a tennis match on. Anne and Lucy started clearing the table of what dishes they could, eyes rolling at the animated nonsense from the ‘boys.’

“Yes, definitely,” Clara answered simply, brushing hair from her eyes. She crinkled her brow in thought, shrugging absently. “It was the easiest one I’ve ever made.”

_February 21 st _

_“Malcolm?” Clara called, closing the front door with her foot, her hands full with bags of groceries. “Hello! Malcolm?”_

_When no response came she tore through the house, the groceries forgotten and dropped by the stairs. With the downstairs cleared she launched herself up the stairs, nearly tripping as she made her way. She forced his bedroom door open, shouting his name, only to startle herself by running straight into him._

_“God, Malcolm,” Clara sighed in relief before looking down at her soaked front, her chest heaving. “Why are you wet?”_

_“I was in the middle of a shower when I heard you shouting, thought you were fucking dying so I put something on to find you,” he panted, clearly as distraught as she was._

_“Oh, I’m sorry, I just,” she trailed off, fidgeting with her hands._

_“I, yeah, I understand.”_

_Malcolm rubbed at the back of his neck, his fingers threading through the tufts of hair that had grown out since his two months out of hospital. He refused to trim it shorter after some questioning, citing the need for a change since he was limited to it. Dean Greeson forced leave on him despite his insistence that he could return after only another week off, so naturally, Malcolm was bored out of his mind._

_“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice barely audible. No one else was in his home, but she knew in those moments when he spoke to her this way, it was him reminding her, ‘I’m here with you. Always for you. Only for you.’_

_“No, not entirely.”_

_“Me either.”_

_Clara looked to him with wide eyes, warmth and yearning and compassion drawing him in, pulling him closer. She loved him so dearly when he was honest with her, and the past few months had proven to be a trial for the both of them. How much he could truly let her in, how much she was able to relinquish control to be there for him. As a result they grew closer, stronger, nearer to the cusp of discovery of finding out what it meant to say “us,” “we,” “ours.”_

_“I’ll cook dinner while you finish your shower, yeah?” Clara suggested, trying to clear the hesitant tension between them. She shivered as he rubbed his hands over her arms, pulling her in for a wet, tight embrace._

_Since Malcolm was discharged from the hospital, Clara was cautious about physical intimacy, though they both desired one another with the ferocity repression brought with it. They were concerned about his health, about it being too despite the medication, though Jackman stated otherwise._

_It was in that time that they learned more about one another over a cup of coffee than others could in a week. There was a quiet desperation building between them, where one could hardly stand to be alone for longer than a few minutes before they were texting, or calling. It was that revelation which spurred Malcolm to suggest she moved in entirely, rather than spending a few nights only to return home for the rest of them._

_They loved one another with depth and clarity, and though they had their fair share of heated arguments and occasional slammed doors, they held each other tighter once the moment died down, thankful for fallen boxes of books and David Bowie._   

_“Dinner sounds lovely,” Malcolm murmured into her hair, inhaling the scent of lavender which clung beautifully to every memory she was a part of. He was absolutely and irrevocably besotted with her. “No soufflés.”_

_“What do you mean, no soufflés?” Clara smacked at the back of his head as she stepped back, satisfied with the playfully hurt expression on his face. “My cooking is wonderful.”_

_“I would hardly call it that, sweetheart,” he stooped to kiss her cheek, chuckling deeply when she presented it to him. “I love you, Clara.”_

_“I love you too, you soggy owl.”_

Clara shook water droplets from her fingers, reaching for the dish towel beside the sink as Malcolm’s voice drew closer, Jamie’s laughter dying down as the door to their restroom undoubtedly closed and locked. She hummed appreciatively as a sinewy, but firm arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her back against his chest.

“Is Jamie going to end up spending the night?” she asked, her breath hitching as she felt lips map out the expanse of her neck and the soft flesh behind her ear.

“Seems likely,” Malcolm murmured. “Fucker was prepared as well, brought a change of clothes.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, “What do you expect? He’s been sleeping on our couch every time he comes round.”

 “Fair point.”

Clara suppressed a moan as Malcolm trailed his hands up and down her thighs, kneading his fingers where he knew she was most responsive to.

“New skirt?” He remarked, teasing the edges of it, her black tights smooth under the pads of his fingers.

“Actually, yes,” she breathed, pressing herself tauntingly against him, pleased at the sound he muffled in her hair. “You know, Jamie can always take a taxi home.”

“Yes he certainly fucking can.”

“Aye, Malc, where’d you fuck off to?” Jamie called unnecessarily loud, running his free hand along the walls as he made his way to the kitchen. His other was busy with the bottomless glass of scotch he never seemed to finish in the three hours he had been holding it. “Try and keep the snogging to a minimum you’ve still practically got a minor present.” 

“Not for much longer, Jamie,” Clara stated rather teacher like, turning to face them both as Malcolm withdrew his hands.

“What d’ya mean?”

“I think it would be appropriate if Malcolm and I had a little, er, privacy? Right, privacy is the right word. Tonight, that is.”

“I hope I’m still getting it as much as you when I’m your age you fucknut,” Jamie grinned cheekily, winking devilishly as Clara blushed.

“Alright, fuck off mingebox,” Malcolm snapped, all bark and no bite and nothing less than a smirk on his face.

“Call me a cab? Phone died a bit ago.”

“Aye, yeah, and take some of that cake with you, we can’t eat all of that,” he sighed, watching Jamie sway into the living room after curtsying like a proper cunt. “Leave the dishes, I’ll do them in the morning.”

“Why would you do the dishes from your birthday dinner?”

“It’s just another night.”

“Just another night? Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugged, looking down at the scrunched up face Clara was making. “My fifty-seventh birthday dinner makes it feel a bit commonplace.”

“Fifty-seventh? I thought you were only thirty-three,” she teased smartly.

“That’s my girl,” he chuckled, leaning in until he could brush a lingering kiss to the corner of her pleased smile. “Leave the dishes.”

“Fine,” Clara yielded, playfully smacking his bum as he turned to help Jamie hire a cab. “There’s more of that when you’re done babysitting.”     

“Christ, don’t fuckin’ taint my innocence,” Jamie groaned, a laugh evident in his voice.

“Didn’t have to try too hard to do that. Where’s your coat?”

She smiled as she listened to them, the years of their friendship clear in the ease at which they fell back into pace with one another. The day after Malcolm’s heart attack Jamie was there to give him hell for scaring them all, which earned him prompt, explicit instructions on how Malcolm would like him to fuck himself.

“Jamie, where’s your coat?”

“Didnae bring one.”

“Aye, you did.”

“Not sure. It’s not fuckin’ important, it’s April.”

“Where i-”

“Fuck if I know Malc, I’ll just get it tomorrow or something.” 

“You’re denser than a f-”

Clara couldn’t quite catch the rest of what he said as the front door opened and closed quickly, leaving her alone in their house for the first time that day. She smiled privately, feeling profound fondness for her Caledonian nutters. She dipped her hands into the soap and bubble filled water of the sink, fishing for the last few dishes while Malcolm was out. She was rinsing a baking sheet when Malcolm returned, quietly watching her from the threshold of the kitchen.

He knew after the first month of their acquaintance that he was in trouble. After the third month he was absolutely smitten, which terrified the hell out of him. It had been so long since he was with someone who reciprocated his affections that he thought it best to shut that part of him away. Cold. Calculating. Unreachable. But not for her. Never for her.

“I thought you were going to leave them,” Malcolm spoke lowly, his expression a mask of calm as Clara started and turned abruptly at the sink.

“Christ, Malcolm, you shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” she laughed, foamed soap dripping down her arms.

“I didn’t,” he defended, crossing, no, _sauntering_ across the room to her. “Come here.”

“Don’t be silly, Malcolm, I’m wet.”

“Sounds like a problem I would be interested in, Clara,” he darkly suggested, his tongue making music of her name. She rewarded him with a deep blush and a smattering of suds across his face. “Oi!”

“ _You_ said you were interested.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Clara had a split second to recognize the implication of her actions before Malcolm pinned her between the sink and his body, one of his hands reaching out to pool foam from the sink before smearing it across her face. She sputtered and blew from her mouth and nose to defend herself against the handful, but just as she did so he was at it again, his chest vibrating with deep bellows of laughter. Clara squirmed against him to try and retaliate, her own laughter rising in pitch as his assault turned to poking and pinching at her sides.

This was the Malcolm she selfishly hoped to keep to herself. This childish and relaxed display was something which was a long time coming, which predominately made appearances only when Eddie was around. This was not true anymore, not after his recovery, not after she saved him, time and time again.

Clara tried once more to free herself from the assault, her sides aching in her fit of laughter. She wriggled and pressed against him, gasping for air just as he did. He stilled with his hands on her hips, both of them panting and sporting mango scented suds, their eyes wide and dark as their pupils stretched against their irises.

The world tilted, the air thickened, time stilled.

Malcolm pressed his hips harder against Clara’s, his arousal evident in the tightness of his trousers, the way he exhaled shakily at the added pressure. Clara wound her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her lips, eager to act on urges she had throughout dinner. They kissed feverishly, giving and taking what they could, sharing in the pleasure of each other’s attentions.  

She stepped out of her shoes and tights and sat on the countertop, her feet swinging ever so slightly as she watched Malcolm take down and step out of his trousers. His boxers offered no concealment to how much he wanted her, and heat and excited anticipation coursed through her veins.

“Come here,” she bade him, reaching out for him with open arms, which he melted into without pause.

Clara started working on the buttons of his shirt, tilting her chin back as Malcolm lavished her neck with wet kisses and nips. When she finished she smoothed the fabric from his shoulders, her eyes gravitating to the scars on his chest. The defibrillator had left two patches of flesh raised and slightly discolored. A reminder, she had called them.

A reminder of everything that had passed. Of what they almost lost. Of how much they needed one another. Clara brushed her fingers tenderly along the raised flesh before following the same path with her lips, the vibration of his moan resonating in her ears as Malcolm wrapped his arms around her.

They made love without reservation, without restraint, their moans turning into laughter, their laughter into words of adoration, their words into silent looks which spoke louder than anything they could have said.  

Malcolm stirred early the following morning, aware of legs tangled with his and a small frame pressing close into his back. He could not help but stretch out his limbs, the physicality of the night before demanding that he straighten out as soon as possible. Clara grumbled and allowed him to shift until she could curl into his side, one hand flat against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, beating for her, as he found it apt to say.

“Happy un-birthday, Malcolm,” she mumbled sleepily, joking as she said, “Did you get your wish?”

He snorted, ghosting his fingers over her bare back, but he pondered it seriously. He cheated, in a way, when Eddie demanded he make a wish. Was there such a thing as cheating in birthday wishes? Perhaps. But it didn’t matter. Not to him. He wished for the same thing he had in years past. Something he already had.

“Mhm, months ago,” he replied, burying his nose in her hair.

“What did you wish for?” Clara perked up, curiosity crinkling her nose.

“Something worth living for,” he said softly, holding her that much tighter.  

Clara saved him the day she said yes to coffee. The night she agreed to dinner. The morning she didn’t give up on him when his body did. The months that came after, when sleep evaded him and depression set in his bones, and he learned how to let someone else be strong for him. He learned to relinquish control, to ask for help. He allowed her to see the cracks, and in doing so, she mended the broken heart in him.

“Hey now,” he whispered, brushing tears from her cheeks. “None of that. Not on my birthday.”

“It isn’t your birthday anymore,” she sniffled, teasing the light dusting of hair beneath her fingers.

“When you get to be my age, every day is your fucking birthday,” he offered with a shrug and smile.

There was a moment of silence as Clara considered this, and the most likely unintentional implications of what he said.

“I’m glad I could share yours with you, Malcolm,” she whispered sincerely.

“Yeah?” His brow raised, and despite how often he rehearsed different scenarios, different ways to sweep her from her feet in a moment of surprise and revelation, he realized there were few momentous opportunities quite like the one which presented itself then. “How would you like to share the rest of them?”

“Are you-is that,” Clara stuttered, the nonchalance of his tone denying her the belief that he wasn’t putting her on. “Malcolm, are you being serious?”

“I would never joke about that. Not with you,” he reassured her warmly, his nerves catching up to him in the silence that lingered between them. “I could always try that again, when I have a fucking ring or something, or when we’ve been together longer. I don’t, fuck, I shouldn’t have-”

“Malcolm-”

“-just sprung that on you like a fuckin’-”

“Malcolm, please-”

“-teenager with a hyperactive pric-”

“Yes!”

“-wait. Yes?”

They were sitting across from each other on their bed, barely breathing as each registered what came to pass.

“Yes,” Clara repeated breathlessly, fresh tears springing along her eyes as Malcolm gaped, a wide smile overcoming his face. She was upon him then, kissing him breathless until they had to break away.

“There are things we would have to figure out, of course, things we wouldn’t be able to, well,” he trailed off uncomfortably between breaths, hoping she would understand without him having to voice all of his concerns. He lost nights of sleep over whether what he had to offer would be enough for the yearnings and passions Clara had, but she made it clear a multitude of times that he brought something to her life she never anticipated.

“I’ve thought about all that, Malcolm, and I don’t care,” she admitted, running her fingers through his silver hair. “Life is better lived when you have someone you love to share it with.”

“Are we quoting Hallmark cards, now?” Malcolm jested, flinching when she faked punching at his shoulder. He continued thoughtfully, “We discover who we are when we learn to see ourselves through the eyes of others.”

“And what do you see, Malcolm?”

“Adventure,” he murmured, kissing her forehead lingeringly. “An awfully big adventure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this story and taking this adventure with me - it's been great fun, and I look forward to tackling these two nutters again in the future. 
> 
> Special thanks to those of you who helped shape this story with your encouragement and reviews, I couldn't have done it without you!


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